Vagabond    City 


By 

Winifred  Boggs 


Here  we  have  no  abiding  city." 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New   York  and   London 
fmfcfcerbocfcet  press 
1911 


COPYRIGHT,  1911 

BY 
WINIFRED  BOGGS 


TTbe  Iftnfcfcerbocfeer  preee,  f^ew 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I.    How  MATRIMONY  WAS  NOT  A  JOKE        3 
II.    THE  "RICH  UNCLE'S"  COTTAGE        .      23 

III.  WHY  THE  BRIDEGROOM  CONSIDERED 

THE   CHAR-LADY  A  LUCKY  DEVIL      37 

IV.  THE  CHAR-LADY  RISES  TO  THE  OC- 

CASION        .....      50 

V.    MICK  Is  OVERTAKEN  BY  CONSCIENCE 

AND  A  PET  PIG     ....      63 

VI.    CONCERNING  A  LITERARY  EVENT  AND 

AN  AUNT 88 

VII.  JARRING  ELEMENTS           .  .  .104 

VIII.  THE  BLESSING  IN  DISGUISE  .  .     120 

IX.  THE  PAST  UNVEILED         .  .  .     139 

X.  THE  UNEXPECTED  HAPPENS  .  .156 

XI.  MICK  is  LIGHT-HEARTED  .  .190 

XII.  THE  MAKING  OF  A  COMPACT  .  .     200 

XIII.  MR.  HIGGINS  AT  HOME  AND  ABROAD    222 


2134527 


iv  Contents 


PAGE 


XIV.  Two  PERSONS  RETURN  TO  YOUTH     .     249 

XV.  A  MATTER  OF  CONSEQUENCES  .         .     268 

XVI.  INACTION         .         .         .         .         .296 

XVII.  How  "FAT-LEGS"  FOUND  HIMSELF 

IN  CLOVER 314 

XVIII.  THE  VAGABOND       ....     324 

XIX.  A  CEREMONIOUS  LEAVE-TAKING         .     331 

XX.  TEMPEST  DRIVEN     ....     355 

XXI.  THAT  THING  CALLED  CHANCE  .         .     369 

XXII.  "ETPuis,  BONSOIR!"     .         .         .380 

XXIII.  "Dm  WANDERLUST"        .         .         .387 


Vagabond  City 


Vagabond  City 


CHAPTER  I 

HOW  MATRIMONY  WAS  NOT  A  JOKE 

TO  the  million,  merely  a  " honeymoon  couple," 
obviously  ill  at  ease,  possibly  embarrassed; 
to  the  one  in  a  million,  something  more  than  a 
pair  ill-matched, — something  like  tragedy  stalk- 
ing hard  on  their  heels.  The  bridegroom:  a  man 
in  a  trap  with  desperate  eyes,  and  primitive 
jesting  mouth.  The  bride:  just  a  woman  in  her 
"best  clothes." 

They  had  been  married  in  November,  had 
endured  a  three-days'  honeymoon  in  a  London  fog, 
and  were  now  setting  forth  in  the  midst  of  a 
hopeless  drizzle  for  a  country  cottage  in  the  wilds 
of  the  New  Forest. 

She  had  married  because  otherwise  she  would 
become  an  old  maid.  She  had  taken  Michael 
Talbot,  because  he  represented  her  only  chance. 
He  had  married  because  he  could  not  get  out 
of  it. 

In  a  small  way  Talbot  was  a  celebrity.  He  it 
was,  who,  under  the  title  of  "The  Vagabond," 
wrote  humorous  paragraphs  in  the  newspapers, 
and  contributed  a  weekly  series  on  his  experiences 
in  three  continents  to  a  famous  journal;  but  he 

3 


4  Vagabond  City 

had  not  justified  his  craft  in  the  bride's  eyes,  for 
though  money  in  plenty  must  have  come  to  him 
from  time  to  time,  nothing  of  it  remained.  He 
had  spent  all  he  made  wandering  for  ten  years 
outside  the  pale  of  civilisation.  She  felt  that  the 
taint  of  savagery  still  clung  to  him,  and  feared  it. 

Talbot  had  not  wanted  to  marry.  Least  of 
all  had  he  wanted  to  marry  Muriel  Dalton.  The 
price  was  too  heavy  for  a  ten-years-old  and  nearly 
cold  calf-love.  He  had  been  twenty-one,  she 
eighteen;  there  had  been  moonlight,  shaded  con- 
servatories, a  band  in  the  distance  wailing  senti- 
mental valses;  there  had  been  all  the  settings, 
everything — except  the  love  itself. 

He  had  drifted  into  a  "private  understanding, " 
forgotten  it,  and  returned  to  meet  it, — in  the  guise 
of  a  recognised  engagement, — only  a  few  weeks 
back.  And  now  he  was  married!  After  ten 
years,  a  boy's  careless  love-making  had  risen 
disastrously  against  him. 

"  You  and  I  together,  love,  never  mind  the  weather, 
love!"  he  muttered  ironically  to  himself,  as  he 
gazed  out  of  the  rain-dashed  windows.  He  had 
never  even  known  weather  could  be  abominable 
till  he  set  forth  on  his  wedding-journey  with  his 
three-days'  wife. 

"I  don't  believe  I  shall  be  able  to  work  in  the 
Forest,  after  all,"  he  said  aloud. 

"There  will  be  bills  even  there, "said  Muriel, 
tightening  her  rather  thin  lips.  "Hasn't  uncle 
been  good  about  the  cottage?" 


How  Matrimony  Was  Not  a  Joke     5 

"I  will  reserve  my  opinion  till  I  Ve  seen  it," 
returned  Mick.  "After  all  it  won't  let,  and  he  'd 
never  dream  of  using  it." 

"It  will  mean  living  for  next  to  nothing,  and 
saving  .  .  .  ' 

"I  hate  saving,"  growled  the  Vagabond.  "I 
don't  know  how  you  start." 

"You  must  start  now  you  are  married,  dear," 
said  his  wife  firmly.  "You  are  no  longer  an 
irresponsible  bachelor. " 

"No — worse  luck!"  muttered  the  newly-made 
husband  ungraciously  to  himself.  "I  'm  done 
for.  Trapped.  In  the  gin  for  life — good  God!" 

"Rose  Cottage  sounds  delightful " 

"There  are  no  roses  in  November,"  he  re- 
minded her — rather  brutally. 

A  dreary  country  cottage,  isolation,  respecta- 
bility— and  Muriel!  He  turned  heart-sick  at  the 
thought. 

While  the  ungrateful  recipient  of  the  rich 
uncle's  gift  grumbled  at  the  cottage,  the  generous 
owner  sat  close  to  a  cozy  fire,  a  large  plate  of 
perfectly  toasted  muffins  by  his  side,  pluming 
himself  upon  the  generosity  which  had  cost  him 
nothing.  As  a  very  excellent  business  man, 
Uncle  William  preferred  that  sort  of  generosity. 
He  never  thought  of  himself  as  Mr.  Higgins,  or 
even  William  (Billie  in  his  youth) ;  such  a  name 
for  such  a  great  man  seemed  entirely  inadequate, — 
almost  indecent.  He  saw  himself  always  as  the 
god  in  the  car,  the  Mayor,  a  power  in  the  land. 


6  Vagabond  City 

He  was  the  Rich  Uncle,  a  Providence — scarcely 
a  minor  one.  His  very  figure,  carried  well  to  the 
fore,  spoke  for  him.  Under  no  circumstances 
could  he  be  thought  of  as  other  men. 

Yet  he  had  a  heart,  for  on  winter  evenings, 
after  the  large  plate  of  muffins  had  disappeared, 
he  was  apt  to  become  sentimental,  and  would 
think  of  the  lady  he  remembered  as  his  first 
love, — and  of  young  lovers  in  general, — with  mois- 
ture in  his  eyes. 

It  is  merely  a  physiological  fact  and  not  cheap 
cynicism,  that  Uncle  William  only  reached  to  a 
high  altitude  of  sentiment  after  a  big  meal. 

He  had  been  fortunate  enough  to  bury  his  first 
love  and  to  marry  for  common-sense ;  thus,  so  to 
speak,  killing  two  birds  with  one  stone.  To  him 
it  was  nothing  that  he  had  loved,  but  much  that 
he  had  lost.  It  placed  him  on  a  high  and  superior 
basis.  He  was  a  man  with  a  secret  sorrow, 
albeit  one  bravely  borne  as  all  his  intimates 
could  testify. 

"May  they  be  long  spared  to  each  other,"  he 
muttered  piously,  thinking  of  the  fortunate  lovers 
hurrying  off  to  his  country  cottage.  "Some  of  us 
have  only  our  memories  .  .  .  '  His  voice  trailed 
piteously. 

His  wife,  while  despised  by  him  as  the  infe- 
rior article,  yet  understood  him  perfectly,  looked 
gravely  into  the  fire,  and  sighed  in  chorus.  The 
gods  had  been  merciful  in  endowing  her  with  a 
sense  of  humour,  carefully  hidden,  so  that  William 


How  Matrimony  Was  Not  a  Joke      7 

Higgins  could  be  an  amusement,  as  well  as  an 
annoyance.  Yet  of  the  two,  she  had  the  only 
right  to  a  memory ;  since  to  her  it  was  a  pain  and 
not  a  pleasure. 

After  dinner,  Mr.  Higgins  became  still  more 
sentimental.  He  pictured  the  honeymooners  sit- 
ting hand  in  hand  by  their  lent  hearth  and  blessing 
him  in  their  prayers.  He  was  a  pious  man  and  be- 
lieved in  being  mentioned  in  people's  prayers. 
He  had  risen  to  his  present  eminence  by  persistent 
pushing  of  himself  and  by  getting  goods  at  as  low 
a  price  as  possible.  That  he  should  be  extolled 
in  High  Quarters  was  only  right  and  fitting,  and 
possibly  beneficial. 

"I  hope  the  cottage  won't  be  damp,"  said  his 
wife  thoughtfully. 

He  waved  her  into  silence.  Hadn't  a  "bug- 
hunter"  and  his  wife  once  found  it  a  six  weeks' 
Paradise!  Wasn't  it  within  reach  of  God's 
Hill?  A  name  like  that  .  .  .  ! 

"One  can  be  a  little  too  prosaic,  Jane,"  was  his 
gentle  reproof. 

Jane,  however,  reminded  him,  just  the  same, 
that  that  six  weeks  had  been  ideal  summer 
weather,  while  the  honeymooners  were  starting 
a  long  tenancy  in  a  very  wet  November.  "It 
makes  a  difference,"  she  concluded. 

"Not  when  one  loves.  ..."  The  reproof  was 
still  gentle,  as  befitted  a  man  of  sad  memories. 

"Will  that  keep  the  rain  out?" 

"They    are    very    fortunate,"    insisted    Uncle 


8  Vagabond  City 

William  loudly — his  idea  of  arguing  was  to  shout 
down  other  people — "I  wish  /  had  had  someone 
to  act  fairy  godmother  when  /  was  young. " 

Mrs.  Higgins  looked  gravely  at  the  ponderous 
figure,  the  stretched  waistcoat,  of  the  fairy  god- 
mother. 

"A  furnished  cottage,"  he  went  on,  "at  the  top 
of  a  hill,  commanding  a  lovely  view,  close  to  wide 
stretches  of  moors,  everything,  save  actual  food, 
found — which  if  they  are  genuinely  in  love  ought 
to  be  a  mere  nothing. " 

Even  in  the  days  of  his  first  love,  Uncle  William's 
own  keep  had  been  far  from  a  mere  nothing,  and 
the  sensible  wife  stitched  a  covert  smile  into  her 
rather  hideous  fancy  work. 

"No  Man's  Land,"  said  Jane,  and  gave  a 
little  shiver.  "It  sounds  dreary,  somehow,  at 
this  time  of  the  year. " 

Mr.  Higgins  frowned. 

"It's  just  the  place,"  he  went  on  positively, 
"for  his  nature  studies,  and  he  will  have  time  to 
write  one  of  that  sort  of  novels  that  make  money, 
— I  don't  mean  an  indecent  one,"  he  added 
quickly.  He  was  seldom  humorous — consciously. 
"People  weren't"  when  they  had  "got  on  in 
the  world."  They  preferred  a  higher,  more 
dignified,  attitude.  "He  wants  stirring  up.  It 's 
a  good  thing  Muriel  will  stand  no  nonsense.  I 
made  a  point  of  speaking  to  him  after  the  cere- 
mony, yet  his  attitude  was  not  what  I  could  have 
wished.  It  was  almost  free  and  easy. " 


How  Matrimony  Was  Not  a  Joke      9 

"Surely  not  to  you,  William!" 

"I  may  be  mistaken.  I  trust  I  am.  I  spoke 
about  the  need  of  hard  work,  too,  the  privilege 
of  providing  for  a  wife  and  family — he  left  me  in 
the  middle  to  speak  to  a  most  Bohemian-looking 
person.  Still,  Muriel  will  be  firm.  He  is  blessed 
with  a  sensible  wife — like  myself."  He  smiled 
condescendingly  upon  the  partner  of  his  joys, 
even  patted  her  hand.  There  was,  he  flattered 
himself,  "no  nonsense"  about  his  wife. 

"He  '11  have  to  work  hard,  too,"  he  continued. 
"If  a  man  is  provided  with  too  many  creature 
comforts,  he  becomes  lazy  and  won't  work,  and 
over-feeding  is  stultifying  to  the  brain."  He  un- 
buttoned the  last  few  buttons  of  his  waistcoat  as 
he  spoke. 

The  sensible  wife  said  nothing — but  she  stitched 
in  another  smile. 

The  rich  uncle  had  had  three  helpings  of  his 
favourite  pudding.  Still,  perhaps  he  had  the  big 
heart  he  made  such  an  asset  of,  as  well  as  a  big 
appetite,  under  the  ex-mayoral  waistcoat. 

"They've  been  engaged  ten  years,  and  he's 
been  away  most  of  the  time,"  said  Mrs.  Higgins, 
a  little  later.  "That  kind  of  marriage  is  a  risk. 
He  's  been  growing  fast  away  from  her  while 
she  's  been  standing  still.  That  sort  of  thing 
makes  difficulties,  William.  Muriel  won't  develop 
— there  's  nothing  in  her  to  grow;  there  's  only  a 
tiny  brain  and  soul  in  that  fine  body  of  hers. 
Besides,  she  would  have  ignored  the  arrangement 


io'  Vagabond  City 

as  a  childish  thing  of  no  consequence,  if  a  better 
chance  had  turned  up." 

"Well — that 's  business,"  was  the  reply  of  the 
man  whose  sentiment  lay  in  streaks.  "I  'm  sure 
we  did  our  best  to  get  her  well-settled;  but  some- 
how in  spite  of  her  looks  she  did  n't  go  off.  It 
puzzled  me." 

"She  had  looks  and  yet  she  was  almost  extra- 
ordinarily devoid  of  attraction.  To  know  her  was 
a  disappointment;  the  more  you  knew  of  her  the 
greater  the  disappointment." 

"Still  they  must  have  loved  each  other  all  the 
time  and  kept  faithful,"  Uncle  William  remarked 
briskly,  letting  sentiment  override  business  for 
the  moment.  "Absence  makes  the  heart  grow 
fonder,  you  know." 

He  spoke  as  if  he  alone  had  invented  the  great 
truism.  As  a  platitudinist  Mr.  Higgins  was  almost 
great. 

"One  often  wonders  of  whom,"  returned  Mrs. 
Higgins  with  sudden  cynicism.  "And  what  do 
you  mean  by  faithful,  William?"  The  bride- 
groom's face  in  all  its  fierce  virility  rose  before 
her.  She  had  seen  Michael  Talbot  attractive 
beyond  the  usual  run,  but  she  had  seen  him  also 
rather  appalling. 

"That  they  loved  no  one  else  of  course,"  he 
returned.  "You  are  rather  dense  to-night,  Jane. 
They  are  a  lucky  pair!  And  Mrs.  Hobbs  living 
close,  ready  to  look  after  their  comforts,  a  divine 
cook " 


How  Matrimony  Was  Not  a  Joke    1 1 


"When  she  is  sober- 


" Don't  carp,  Jane!  Besides  she's  taken  the 
pledge- 

"They  always  do — when  they  can't  control 
themselves,"  retorted  Jane,  beginning  to  fold  up 
her  work.  "It  throws  the  onus  on  Other  Shoul- 
ders. It 's  the  last  and  most  fatal  stage  of  a 
drunkard's  career — an  open  confession  of  failure. 
It 's  ten  o'clock." 

"Then  ring  for  prayers. " 

Prayers — as  if  coffee  or  a  fried  steak  hot — were 
rung  for.  The  servants  trooped  in,  resigned 
expressions  on  their  faces,  and  the  ex-mayor 
extended  the  voice  of  patronage  to  his  Maker. 
Though  kind  and  courteous  about  it,  he  was 
singularly  firm.  He  stated  one  or  two  wishes — 
we  will  not  say  commands — rather  definitely. 
He  liked  things — even  his  religion — run  on  busi- 
ness lines. 

Besides,  he  was  over-lord  of  many  work-people, 
to  whom  he  said,  come,  and  they  came;  go,  and 
they  went.  And  he  had  shaken  hands  with  a 
royal  duke — with  a  friendliness  that  rather  aston- 
ished that  personage.  He  had  also  attended  a 
dinner  which  had  for  its  chief  attraction  a  famous 
ambassador  and  his  friends,  and  he  was  certainly 
the  chief  personage  of  his  own  particular  suburb, 
so  that  at  no  time  could  he  be  classed  with  the  rest 
of  the  world.  He  had  been  three  times  mayor  of 
Little- Dale  and  was  the  admired  rich  uncle  of 
parasitic  nephews  and  nieces. 


12  Vagabond  City 

If  he  had  guessed  that  the  bridegroom  was  not 
blessing  him  on  the  wedding- journey,  he  would 
have  been  immensely  surprised,  as  well  as  grieved, 
at  the  ingratitude  of  man.  Mentally,  he  saw 
Michael  Talbot  speaking  of  his  benefactor  with 
deep  gratitude  and  he  guessed  nothing  of  a  savage 
face  staring  out  of  a  train  window. 

Michael's  numerous  friends  would  not  have 
recognised  their  merry  vagabond — the  man  who 
would  seldom  be  serious,  who  helped  to  make  the 
long  days  pass  swiftly,  whose  facile  pen,  while  it 
made  many  laugh,  made  others  wonder  how  any 
grown  man  could  write  such  nonsense.  Yet 
Lewis  Carroll  wrote  nonsense,  once  upon  a  time, 
and  Hans  Andersen. 

In  his  ten  years  of  wandering,  he  had  been  in 
more  than  one  tight  place;  stood,  so  to  speak,  with 
his  back  to  the  wall — and  stood  there  with  care- 
less insouciance.  But  now,  though  he  was  in  the 
tightest  place  of  all,  he  saw  no  way  out.  He 
cowered  with  courage  down,  laughter  very  far 
from  his  lips. 

As  he  sat  there,  grim  and  forbidding,  the  type 
of  the  man  was  only  too  plain.  It  was  the  type 
that  never  goes  through  life  easily.  He  would 
be  almost  inevitably  the  square  peg  in  the  round 
hole.  He  would  travel  a  rough  road  with  a  jest — 
but  his  feet  would  ache  none  the  less  for  it.  Vaga- 
bond was  written  all  over  him ;  his  path  was  meant 
by  nature  to  be  the  pathway  of  the  pioneer ;  he  was 
of  those  who  here  have  no  abiding  city.  The  curse 


How  Matrimony  Was  Not  a  Joke    13 

of  the  wandering  Jew  is  on  him,  and  he  must 
ever  seek  that  which  lies  beyond;  but  his  curse — 
ironically — he  calls  Freedom.  When  age  and 
weariness  cry  halt,  the  roaming  spirit  still  wields 
the  bloody  spur.  At  home,  bright  faces  by  a  red 
fire ;  for  him  no  hearth-fire  at  all. 

What  of  the  night,  then,  wanderer,  what  of 
the  night? 

He  follows  the  lone  trail  to  the  end,  not  because 
he  would,  but  because  he  must,  and  the  bitter 
blood  of  Ishmael  will  not  let  him  rest. 

A  question  mocks  him:  "What  went  ye  into 
the  wilderness  to  see? — A  reed  shaken  by  the 
wind?"  and  he  can  give  no  answer.  The  thing 
lies  deeper  than  words,  and  is  stronger  than  all 
the  reason  in  the  world.  His  interests,  those  he 
loves,  bid  him  stay  and  gather  goodly  moss — but 
the  gods  have  shod  his  feet  with  the  wander-fire. 
And  so  he  follows  his  destiny,  and  the  desert 
winds  scatter  his  dust.  In  youth,  the  fluttering 
of  great  white  wings,  the  ship  all  white  and  rose; 
in  age,  dark  vulture- wings  and  a  ship  with  sails 
of  ''black  and  tarnished  gold."  And  another 
vagabond  "gone  under."  Of  Michael  Talbot  and 
his  like,  it  is  truly  written — "their  breath  is 
agitation  and  their  life  a  storm. " 

He  had  an  odd,  an  arresting  face,  and  the  spirit 
of  the  incarnate  gipsy  looked  out  of  it.  It  was 
dark  and  virile  and  contradictory.  The  jaw  was 
harsh,  selfish,  domineering;  the  mouth  wholly 
reckless,  a  little  coarse,  the  corners  by  turn  ironical 


14  Vagabond  City 

and  whimsical.  Idealism  lay  in  the  fine  forehead, 
and  the  sweeping  brows  and  the  eyes.  The  eyes 
were  magnificent,  deep  and  dark  and  grey,  full 
of  the  wildness,  the  fire,  and  the  inner  vision  of 
the  Celt.  The  eyes  of  a  dreamer — and  the  eyes 
of  greatness. 

Yet  Mick  Talbot  had  done  little  in  the  world 
as  yet,  had  made  no  lasting  mark. 

He  walked  with  the  careless  swing  of  one  who 
has  long  lived  close  to  nature,  and  there  was  some- 
thing incongruous  in  the  idea  of  his  starting  on  a 
conventional  honeymoon — though  perhaps  it  was 
Muriel  who  struck  the  note  of  incongruity,  repre- 
senting, as  she  did,  all  the  little  gods  of  respectable 
civilisation.  Her  upbringing  made  her  position  as 
Michael  Talbot's  wife  little  short  of  ridiculous. 
It  was  a  case  of  Mrs.  Grundy  hand  in  hand  with 
one  of  the  out-classed. 

She  came  of  a  father  and  grandfather,  nar- 
row clergymen  in  narrow  parishes,  women-rid- 
den, and  because  she  was  not  quite  a  lady,  was 
painfully  afraid  of  anything  "common"  or  lacking 
in  refinement.  It  was  "common"  to  have 
the  great  grandparents  she  had  had  on 
both  sides,  so  —  rather  cleverly  —  she  ignored 
them. 

Her  mother  divided  people  she  called  on  "so- 
cially," and  people  she  called  on  as  vicar's  wife, 
into  sheep  and  goats,  and  found  an  allegory  in 
Scripture,  between  two  peoples  whence  a  great 
gulf  was  set.  It  would  have  been  impossible  for 


How  Matrimony  Was  Not  a  Joke    15 

her  to  forget  the  gulf — and  Muriel  was  her 
mother's  daughter. 

The  rich  William  Higgins,  who,  in  his  mayoral 
capacity,  mixed  with  the  great  ones  of  the  earth, 
was  the  real  god  to  whom  the  vicar's  wife  made 
burnt  offerings.  He  had  no  children;  she,  the 
usual  clerical  family.  Could  anything  be  more 
providential?  Her  eight  children  were  brought 
up  to  fear  and  propitiate  God,  but  to  worship 
Uncle  William.  Uncle  William  was  the  bird  in 
the  hand.  It  was  hoped  he  might  have  many  and 
immediate  benefits  to  bestow. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  the  country  cottage  had 
been  the  only  one — Mr.  Higgins  was  in  no  sense 
of  the  word  a  waster; — it  was  regarded  as  a  good 
omen,  and  accepted  with  effusive  gratitude. 

Mrs.  Dalton  had  pronounced  "country  cottage" 
in  such  a  fashion  that  many  people  supposed  it  a 
shooting-box,  and  perhaps  Mr.  Higgins  had  his 
excuse  for  thinking  it  rather  magnificent  himself. 

"It  is  well  situated  on  the  top  of  a  hill,"  the 
owner — who  had  never  seen  it — informed  the 
newly-married  couple,  "and  commands  a  fine 
view.  You  will  be  charmed  .  .  .  charmed.  ..." 

Muriel  was  sure  of  that  and  it  was  too  generous 
of  him  for  words !  He  spoiled  them  so  dreadfully ! 

Uncle  William  blew  himself  out  and  said, 
"Not  at  all."  It  was  just  the  place  for  a  writer 
who  was  confessedly  short  of  cash — like  most 
writers  he  supposed — ha!  ha!  The  bridegroom 
would  have  no  distraction  to  take  him  from  his 


1 6  Vagabond  City 

work — it  did  not  occur  to  the  speaker  to  consider 
Muriel  in  the  light  of  a  distraction — he  could  amass 
a  comfortable  sum  and  then  settle  down  in  a 
correct  villa  in  a  correct  suburb. 

The  bridegroom  merely  looked  dazed. 

"It  will  be  all  incomings  and  practically  no 
outgoings,"  continued  the  philanthropist,  "and 
that,  my  dear  boy,  is  the  secret  of  fortune, — the 
corner-stone ' ' — everybody  applauded  the  grandilo- 
quent sentiment — "and  love's  young  dream  and 
silvern  glades."  The  last  human  touch  further 
endeared  the  speaker  to  his  admiring  relatives. 
Now  a  thought  of  Mr.  Higgins  and  the  silvern 
glades  brought  an  ironical  twist  to  Mick's  lip  as 
he  stared  at  the  hopeless  outlook. 

"Will  it  never  stop  raining!"  wondered  the 
bride. 

Michael  said  nothing.  What  did  it  matter 
whether  the  rain  stopped  or  not  when  one  was 
married?  Nothing  was  ever  going  to  matter 
very  much  again.  Freedom  lay  drooping  with  a 
broken  wing;  the  old  days  were  done. 

He  glanced  at  his  wife,  then  turned  away  with  a 
frown.  He  was  conscious  of  something  wrong 
with  her  clothes,  of  something  that  jarred  his 
sense  of  the  fit. 

It  was  pouring  hopelessly;  their  destination 
was  a  desolate  cottage  in  the  forest  miles  away 
from  a  station;  they  would  almost  certainly  have 
to  take  the  journey  in  an  open  trap,  and  Muriel 
wore  an  elaborate  over-trimmed  pale  blue  coat 


How  Matrimony  Was  Not  a  Joke    17 

and  skirt,  had  on  thin  shoes  with  very  high 
heels,  and  a  picture  hat  smothered  in  pale  blue 
feathers. 

The  type — and  class — of  woman  he  knew  most 
about  would  have  worn  a  short-skirted  tweed 
costume  and  well-cut  raincoat  with  appropriate 
boots  and  headgear,  but  Muriel,  as  he  was  to 

discover,  would  insist  upon  being — parochially 

smart,  irrespective  of  suitability. 

"It's  dreadful  to  take  one's  wedding- journey 
in  such  weather!"  lamented  the  bride.  "Oh, 
Mick,  why  can't  you  say  something — something 
cheerful!" 

But  he  only  said,  rather  tactlessly,  that  he 
did  n't  see  that  it  made  it  any  worse. 

"You  forget  .  .  .  'Happy  is  the  bride  that  the 
sun  shines  on,'  and  it 's  poured  since  the  minute 
we  were  married,  for  three  days  ...  it  seems  so 
unlucky."  She  shivered,  partly  with  cold,  partly 
with  superstition. 

"Yes,  it 's  unlucky,"  he  agreed,  absently  think- 
ing of  the  marriage  rather  than  the  rain.  "Devil- 
ish unlucky!" 

Muriel  was  silent  for  a  while,  then  she  said 
nervously,  "Does  n't  it  seem  odd  that  we  are  really 
married;  that  we  are  going  to  spend  all  our  lives 
together?" 

Mick  pressed  his  face  against  the  blurred  win- 
dow in  a  spirit  of  passionate  revolt,  and  the  train 
went  round  to  "all  our  lives  together — all  our 
lives  together!"  repeated  incessantly.  He  felt  he 


1 8  Vagabond  City 

should  go  mad,  but  all  he  said,  in  rather  a  strained 
voice,  was,  "Yes,  odd — very!" 

He  must  force  himself  to  forget  for  a  little  time 
what  had  happened.  He  would  go  back  in  mem- 
ory to  those  free  ten  years,  to  the  glory  and  the 
fulness  of  their  being.  He  had  been  in  so  many 
and  strange  places,  known  so  many  and  strange 
conditions  of  life,  of  men  and  women.  .  .  .  Yes, 
he  would  go  back,  back  in  his  mind,  if  his  body 
might  not  follow.  Like  a  kaleidoscope,  scenes 
rose  before  him,  a  flash  here,  another  there, 
nothing  of  much  importance,  just  scenes  that  came 
in  a  wild  jumble  apart  from  their  importance — 
a  kaleidoscope  that  spun  from  continent  to  con- 
tinent inconsequently.  .  .  .  He  was  in  Egypt, 
standing  aside  to  let  the  gaily-clad  pilgrims  pass, 
and  suddenly  he  laughed  at  an  odd  face  in  the 
crowd.  But  Gore  did  not  laugh,  he  was  almost 
angry;  he  said  there  was  nothing  to  laugh  at, 
that  it  was  beautiful  because  it  was  faith,  and 
faith  alone  was  never  ridiculous. 

How  clearly  he  saw  it  all!  How  easily  he 
passed  from  an  English  fog  to  draw  in  the  sensuous 
breath  of  an  orange  garden,  the  orange  sails 
flashing  past  on  the  golden  Nile;  for  it  was  the 
hour  of  gold.  Yet  though  his  mental  eyes  might 
look  on  one  scene,  he  could  not  forget  that  he  was 
seated  opposite  Muriel  on  his  wedding-journey; 
that  there  was  a  voice  he  could  not  still,  dropping 
poison  in  his  ears.  What  a  fool  he  had  been  to 
let  public  opinion  marry  them!  What  did  public 


How  Matrimony  Was  Not  a  Joke   19 

opinion  matter,  the  opinion  of  the  majority — "mostly 
fools"! 

...  He  was  riding  in  South  Africa  across  a 
veldt  like  a  brown  undulating  sea;  for  miles  and 
miles  no  sign  of  life  met  his  eyes,  but  an  air  like 
wine  stirred  his  joyous  blood,  and  he  drew  in  his 
breath,  and  blessed  the  space  of  it  all.  .  .  .  Why 
in  God's  name  hadn't  he  escaped  while  there  was 
yet  time? 

.  .  .  Back  in  Egypt  again,  the  desert,  a  dead 
man,  a  dying  horse  .  .  .  and  a  black  cloud  cir- 
cling overhead.  .  .  .  He  could  have  thrown  up 
the  work  offered  in  England,  gone  back  to  the  un- 
chained years.  Why  bid  for  fame  and  success? 
What  have  such  toys  to  do  with  those  who  live  too 
fiercely  to  grasp  the  passing  bubbles? 

.  .  .  That  mining  camp  had  never  seemed  real. 
It  was  a  bit  of  Bret  Harte;  that  was  all.  How 
they  worked  for  gold,  endured  for  it,  died  for  it, 
many  of  them!  How  greed  set  brother  against 
brother !  How  all  the  worst  of  man  rose  like  scum 
to  the  top !  He  had  worked  with  the  rest,  but  the 
gold  he  had  secured  had  done  no  more  than  pay 
his  expenses — and  his  excesses.  And  here  he 
was,  married  to  the  most  respectable  of  women, 
to  an  institution,  one  might  almost  say!  He 
chuckled  grimly,  and  Muriel  looked  across  at 
him  astonished.  Then  she  frowned,  for  his 
strange  wild  eyes  were  looking  through  her,  past 
her,  far  away.  She  knew  he  had  gone  whence  she 
might  not  follow,  and  an  angry  sense  of  further 


2o  Vagabond  City 

disillusion  and  disgust  fell  upon  her.  Already! 
Why  could  n't  he  be  pleasantly  bright  and  amus- 
ing— this  man  who  was  said  to  be  a  humourist. 
A  humourist !  Then  his  face  was  an  anomaly !  But 
it  was  merely  a  face  signed  with  the  seal  of  tragedy, 
and  sad,  with  all  the  grim  sadness  of  the  jester. 

.  .  .  And  Mick  was  riding  along  the  pictur- 
esque road  of  an  Indian  village  in  September,  a 
road  lit  by  the  fireflies  blazing  in  the  trees,  and 
thinking  with  his  other  consciousness. 

"/  could  have  said,  'There  is  some  mistake.  I 
never  considered  it  an  engagement:  we  never  wrote. 
Your  daughter  had  no  right  to  "wait  for  me,"  and 
I — "will  not  marry  her! '  How  easy  it  sounded, 
how  simple — now! 

.  .  .  Russia !  It  had  not  appealed  in  spite  of 
its  barbarity;  it  was  a  land  where  the  voice  of 
the  East  sounded  clearer  than  elsewhere.  The 
Czar  drove  past,  unending  horror  in  his  haunted 
eyes.  Perhaps  he,  too,  hated  Russia.  .  .  . 

The  untrodden  ways  of  the  world  .  .  .  they 
called  to  him  shrilly,  imperiously.  And  he  walked 
with  radiant  eyes  in  lands  where  the  two  forces 
of  civilisation,  the  word  of  God,  and  the  whisky 
of  man,  entered  hand  in  hand,  creating  a  new 
Heaven  and  a  new  earth.  .  .  . 

But  Muriel  sat  opposite. 

.  .  .  He  saw  the  bloody  hand  of  a  vile,  dead  king 
grow  vast  between  him  and  the  sky,  and  followed 
a  track  of  blood  and  tears  towards  a  Congo 
village.  But  men  grow  rich  on  rubber  just  the 


How  Matrimony  Was  Not  a  Joke  21 

same;  the  dead  king  was  not  the  only  vampire 
with  insatiable  maw.  .  .  . 

"Mick." 

But  Mick  did  not  hear.  He  stood  dreaming 
by  the  Black  Sea,  and  saw  the  sun  go  down  upon 
its  wrath.  .  .  . 

"Mick,  do  you  know  where  we  are?" 

He  knew  where  he  was — beneath  a  honey- 
coloured  moon  looking  down  on  dead  Carthage  and 
dying  asphodels,  afar  off  the  insistent  throbbing 
of  a  drum,  and  laden  camels  passing  swiftly  across 
the  skyline.  .  .  . 

"It 's  Southampton  West,  and  the  man  said  we 
were  to  change  here  for  Totton." 

So  they  changed,  Muriel  for  Totton,  Mick  for 
a  quaint  little  Swiss  chalet  set  on  the  top  of  a 
mountain. 

.  .  .  By  Jove,  this  was  rippin',  right  down 
rippin'!  What  an  ideal  companion  Miss  Elphen- 
stonne  made — but  what  a  ponderous  name  for 
such  a  little  body!  He  would  call  her  the  Elf — 
she  could  not  deny  she  came  from  the  land  of 
elves.  He  knew.  And  what  a  gift — God  what 
a  divine  gift !  Where  would  -  it  take  her? 
Rather — where  would  it  not  take  her?  To  the 
heights — as  they  stood  together  upon  them  now, 
he,  throwing  the  edelweiss,  with  laughing  words, 
at  her  feet.  .  .  .  (How  different  was  the  Elj 
from  Muriel:  Muriel  could  never  understand.} 

"The  next  station!"  cried  Muriel.  "Thank 
goodness!  We  're  just  there,  Mick." 


22  Vagabond  City 

"Where?"  he  asked  absently. 

.  .  .  The  desert  and  Gore:  nothing  was  ever 
going  to  be  better  than  that.  How  young  he  was, 
how  madly,  deliciously  young!  Then  suddenly 
the  beauty  of  the  past  was  blotted  out  and  he 
shuddered  before  an  ever-present  horror,  the 
vision  of  dead  eyes  staring  in  the  sunshine,  a  man 's 
clear  blue,  a  woman's  narrow  and  dark — and 
desert  sand,  pressed  down  upon  the  light  of  both. 
.  .  .  And  when  he  sat  back  his  eyes  were  no  longer 
vividly  alive,  or  wild,  or  visionary ;  they  were  dead 
and  glassy  and  unbeautiful;  his  healthy  brown  face 
an  ugly  sickly  yellow. 

Muriel  started  at  sight  of  him.  "Does  travel- 
ling make  you  bilious?"  she  asked,  in  a  tone  of 
awful  apprehension.  "Thank  goodness  this  is 
Totton!"  She  tore  at  the  door. 

He  came  back  to  realities  with  a  jerk,  his  face 
assumed  its  normal  colour.  "  I  beg  your  pardon, " 
he  said  quickly.  "Allow  me."  And  opened  the 
door. 

"It's  raining  worse  than  ever,"  shuddered 
Muriel,  "but  I  suppose  there  '11  be  a  cab. " 

"A  vehicle  of  some  description,  no  doubt,"  he 
returned,  guardedly. 


CHAPTER  II 
THE  "RICH  UNCLE'S"  COTTAGE 

IT  was  raining  harder  than  ever,  and  only  one 
shabby  cab  waited  outside  the  station. 

"  Be  quick ! "  cried  Muriel  feverishly.  "  If  some- 
one else  were  to  get  it!  I  will  see  to  the 
things." 

Mick's  eyes,  alert  enough  now,  swept  quickly 
round  the  station,  caught  sight  of  a  fat,  bulging 
little  woman  with  very  black  eyes.  The  corners 
of  his  mouth  twitched,  and  he  touched  his  wife 
on  the  arm.  "Look,"  he  cried,  delighted,  "a 
suet  pudding  tied  inadequately  in  the  middle,  and 
a  little  overboiled.  And  currants  for  eyes — nice 
kind  currants.  Of  course  that  long,  lean,  de- 
pressed-looking man  is  her  husband.  How  mar- 
riage loves  to  tie  up  opposites,  and  laugh!" 

"She  's  going  for  the  cab!"  cried  Muriel,  in  an 
agony. 

"The  devil!"  ejaculated  Mick,  and  made  an 
ungallant  attempt  to  forestall  the  rather  absurd 
little  body  rolling  along  on  its  short  legs.  The 
long,  lean  man  already  ahead  seemed  to  guess 
Mick's  intention,  for  he  made  a  frantic  spurt 

23 


24  Vagabond  City 

towards  the  cab,  and  reached  it  first.  "Ours," 
he  said  triumphantly,  glaring  at  Mick,  with  the 
usual  hate  of  the  average  British  traveller. 

Mick  returned  to  meet  Muriel's  reproaches, 
and  the  lean  man  proceeded  to  "boost" — no 
other  word  applied — his  fat  little  wife  into  the  cab. 

Suddenly  to  his  astonishment,  she  got  out. 
"Those  poor  things  must  have  it, "  she  announced 
positively.  ' '  They  're  honeymooners. ' ' 

Her  lean  lord  stared  at  her  in  amazement. 

"What's  that  to  do  with  it?"  he  growled 
aggressively.  ' '  I  got  here  first ! ' ' 

"We  were  honeymooners  ourself  once,"  she 
said,  a  little  absurdly. 

"  Huh ! "  said  the  man,  who  did  n't  want  to  walk, 
adding  rudely,  "Idiots!" 

Mick  thanked  the  kindly  suet-pudding  with  a 
winning  courtesy  that  rather  amazed  his  wife, 
but,  unfortunately,  the  cabman  had  no  mind  to 
be  disposed  of  without  a  voice  in  the  matter. 
He  had  had  as  much  work  as  he  wanted  already, 
and  the  fat  lady's  house  was  close  to  his  own.  He 
eyed  Mick  and  the  piled-up  luggage  askance. 

"Where  be  you  going  to?"  he  demanded, 
suspiciously. 

"No  Man's  Land,"  returned  Mick — apology 
in  his  tones. 

"Ten  mile!  It  can't  be  done,  sir.  It  would  n't 
be  right  to  the  horse."  He  turned  to  the  lean 
man.  "I  can  just  take  you,  sir,  since  it 's  close 
to  my  stables." 


The  "Rich  Uncle's"  Cottage        25 

"O  dear,  I  'm  so  sorry,"  said  the  fat  woman, 
eyeing  Muriel  with  pity. 

Muriel  turned  to  her  husband  as  the  fat  lady 
was  driven  away.  "I  want  a  cab,"  she  said 
unreasonably.  "You  must  get  one.  Look  how 
soaked  I  am  already.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  going  to 
have  a  bad  chill." 

A  porter  came  up  to  Mick.  "If  it 's  No  Man's 
Land,  maybe  Harrison's  cart  would  take  you," 
he  suggested.  "They're  going  back  to  the  pig 
farm  on  the  top  of  Piper's  Hill."1 

An  uncouth  lad  in  charge  of  the  cart  said  he  'd 
do  it  as  a  favour  for  ten  shillings,  and  the  honey- 
mooners  were  informed  it  was  about  their  only 
chance  of  reaching  their  destination. 

"Of  course  it 's  different  in  the  summer, "  added 
the  porter,  "but  no  one  comes  down  at  this  time 
of  the  year. " 

The  driver  of  the  open  cart,  answering  reluct- 
antly to  the  name  of  John,  said  the  luggage  must 
be  packed  carefully,  not  to  hurt  the  pig. 

"What  pig?"  asked  Muriel,  aghast. 

He  pointed  laconically  with  his  whip,  and  an 
inquisitive  snout  peered  over  the  tailboard. 

"To  go  in  a  cart  with  a  pig  ..."  Muriel's 
voice  shook  at  the  indignity. 

"Well,  it 's  as  bad  for  him,"  said  Mick  cheer- 
fully. "He  thought  he  was  going  to  have  half 
the  cart  to  himself,  instead  of  which,  we  shall 
crowd  him  somewhat." 

1  The  pig  farm  and  Rose  Cottage  are  entirely  imaginary. 


26  Vagabond  City 

The  porter  gave  a  hand,  and  the  boxes  were 
hastily  bundled  into  the  cart,  John  unnecessarily 
reminding  them  not  to  forget  the  pig,  while  that 
animal  turned  wildly  round  in  a  circle.  Then 
Muriel  was  assisted  to  a  seat  beside  the  driver, 
Mick  got  up  behind,  and  the  somewhat  undignified 
procession  started. 

The  damp  husband  sat  behind  the  damp  wife, 
and  watched  the  wave  coming  out  of  her  ela- 
borately dressed  hair,  and  her  new  costume  meet 
its  final  Waterloo.  Her  feathers  were  mere 
waterspouts  now,  and  seemed  positively  to  enjoy 
squirting  rivulets  of  water  down  her  neck.  He  sat 
with  a  bicycle  lamp  on  his  knee,  in  case  the  light 
should  fail  before  they  reached  their  destination, 
thinking  guiltily  of  the  coats  and  umbrellas  he 
had  lost. 

"I  should  have  thought,"  snapped  Muriel, 
turning  her  dripping  head,  "that  after  knocking 
about  the  world  for  ten  years,  you  might  have 
learnt  how  to  take  care  of  coats  and  umbrellas." 

"They  are  only  at  Southampton  West,"  he 
said  apologetically,  "and  will  come  on  to-morrow. 
I  '11  bicycle  down  for  them." 

"When  it's  fine — how  useful!"  her  well-cut 
features  were  disfigured  by  a  sneer. 

Michael  dared  not  trust  himself  to  reply.  He 
would  have  been  furious  had  anyone  applied  the 
word  "nerves"  to  him,  but  they  would  not  have 
been  very  far  wrong. 

"You  might — "      She  ended  with  a  startled 


The  "Rich  Uncle's"  Cottage        27 

scream;  the  pig  had  made  a  furious  dart  forwards 
and  since  her  legs  were  in  the  way,  Muriel  failed 
to  maintain  her  balance. 

"Be  quiet,  Dick,  will  yer!"  cried  John,  ad- 
dressing the  pig.  Then  he  turned  to  Muriel. 
"Twist  his  tail,  mem,  if  he's  tiresome,"  he  ad- 
vised. 

"Twist  his  tail!"  echoed  Muriel,  in  dazed  tones, 
while  a  spurt  of  laughter  came  from  Mick. 

John  nodded  confidentially.  "Ay,  that  always 
does  it.  He  's  a  grand  boar, — Dick,  and  likes 
goin'  about  an'  winnin'  at  shows,  but  there 's 
times  when  he  wants  teachin'  his  place.  So 
mind  to  twist  his  tail." 

"Now's  your  chance,"  grinned  Michael,  as 
the  pig  made  another  dash  forward,  and  he 
caught  him.  "I  've  got  his  shoulders;  wrench  his 
tail!" 

"I  don't  want  to  touch  his  tail!"  cried  Muriel, 
in  a  fury. 

Mick  ceased  from  laughter,  and  let  the  pig  go. 
They  drove  on  in  dreary  silence.  The  long 
straight  road  from  Totton  to  Cadnam,  under  the 
best  conditions,  is  dull  and  without  picturesque 
interest,  but  in  November  rain  it  was  hideous. 
The  road  beyond  Cadnam,  pretty  enough  at  other 
times,  certainly  looked  no  better  under  conditions 
such  as  these,  and  Uncle  William's  "silvern  glades" 
were  scarcely  at  their  best.  The  whole  thing  was 
rather  like  a  nightmare. 

Michael  sat  hunched  up,  sullen  and  brooding. 


28  Vagabond  City 

"What  a  fool  I  have  been!"  was  the  burden  of 
his  thoughts.  He  was  no  gallant  in  his  mind. 
Why  had  n't  he  seen  the  trap  in  time — and  avoided 
it?  But  he  had  walked  in  quite  innocently,  and 
when  he  turned  to  go — lo!  the  door  was  shut! 
In  marriage  there  is  no  going  back.  His  own 
people  regarded  him  as  the  family  prodigal,  'and 
it  was  pleasant  to  be  met  with  a  kindly  note  of 
welcome  from  old  friends,  with  a  warm  invitation 
to  come  and  stay  at  the  vicarage,  to  come  straight 
off  the  boat  if  he  would.  Muriel  he  recalled 
dimly,  as  what  he  was  vaguely  pleased  to  call 
"one  of  the  moonlight  girls." 

Doubtless  there  had  been  tender  passages  in 
the  past.  His  recollection  was  of  a  pretty,  rather 
insipid,  maiden.  No  doubt  she  had  developed 
since  then,  and  she  would,  of  course,  be  married. 
It  would  be  nice  to  go  back  to  the  careless  days  of 
his  youth — and  they  seemed  to  take  his  acceptance 
for  granted. 

The  welcome  was  even  warmer  than  he  expected. 
They  made  him  one  of  the  family  at  once — but 
what  a  dull  narrow  family  it  was!  Muriel  took 
almost  too  much  possession  of  him,  and  was 
vaguely  sentimental.  He  marvelled  to  find  her 
not  a  day  older;  not  in  the  least  changed,  as  far 
as  he  could  remember.  She  showed  him  a  broken 
sixpence,  and  asked,  with  a  blush,  if  he  had  kept 
his  too. 

Not  to  hurt  her  feelings,  he  said  he  believed  he 
had,  though  he  had  no  recollection  of  a  sixpence 


The  "Rich  Uncle's"  Cottage       29 

at  all,  and  then  laughed — as  if  at  mutual  folly 
long  past. 

Muriel,  however,  did  not  laugh;  she  looked  down 
with  a  smile,  and  a  momentary  alarm  seized  him— 
could  it  be,  of  all  ridiculous  things  in  the  world, 
that  Muriel,  in  her  correct  and  "ladylike"  way, 
imagined  herself  in  love  with  him?  Distance  had 
apparently  lent  enchantment  to  the  view. 

He  decided  to  leave  next  day.  He  had  no  wish 
for  foolish  love-making  with  a  woman  who  bored 
him,  but,  as  she  said  good-night,  her  hand  linger- 
ing in  his,  looking  very  girlish,  very  appealing, 
very  pretty,  acting  on  sudden  impulse,  he  stooped 
and  kissed  her  upturned  lips.  A  kiss  of  farewell 
for  old  time's  sake! 

But  Muriel  did  not  take  it  like  that. 

"I  always  knew  you  would  be  faithful,  too, 
and  come  back  to  marry  me  in  the  end,  as  you 
promised!"  she  sighed,  happily. 

She  did  not  see  the  look  of  startled  horror  in  his 
eyes;  she  thought  it  was  content  that  made  him 
suddenly  speechless.  She  really  believed  he  was 
in  love  with  her,  as  she  imagined  herself  to  be 
with  him.  She  would  never  have  married  a  man 
against  his  will — once  she  had  understood  it  was 
against  his  will.  It  would  have  had  to  be  put 
rather  plainly — that  is  all. 

She  gave  a  little  laugh  and  started  for  the  door, 
"The  others  will  be  so  pleased,"  she  said  shyly. 
"They  always  expected  it,  though  they  said  it 
was  silly  to  wait  so  long,  that  I  might  end  by  being 


30  Vagabond  City 

an  old  maid!"  She  laughed  as  one  who  has 
safely  escaped  a  possible  danger. 

Then  she  went,  and  he  stood  staring  like  one 
in  a  dream.  The  vicar  roused  him,  shook  him 
warmly  by  the  hand — and  showed  himself  more 
businesslike  than  Michael  would  have  believed 
possible.  He  also,  it  appeared,  had  expected  it. 
The  fiance's  relations  also,  so  it  was  plain  to  all, 
had  been  but  waiting  for  the  formal  announce- 
ment, and  offered  ready  and  thankful  congratu- 
lations. Such  a  nice  girl,  so  safel  The  Bohemian 
would  settle  down  now  of  course  and  become  a 
creditable  member  of  society.  With  Muriel,  he 
would  be  forced  to  walk  hand  in  hand  with  con- 
ventionality;  she  would  undoubtedly  see  to  that. 

He  certainly  did  not  deserve  such  good  luck, 
for,  even  across  the  Atlantic,  there  had  blown 
strange  stories,  strange  rumours,  as  to  the  ways 
of  Michael  Talbot.  Even  in  England,  where  he 
imagined  himself  to  be  walking  with  much  cir- 
cumspection, his  relations  looked  upon  him  as 
"wild."  Now  that  he  was  married  and  settled 
down,  it  would,  of  course,  be  all  right.  It  prac- 
tically always  was. 

While  Michael  hesitated  as  to  the  way  of  es- 
cape, he  was  lost,  and  found  all  ways  closed  to 
him.  Between  them  the  relations — all  very  im- 
portant and  busy  and  greatly  in  their  element — 
fixed  the  wedding-day — and  fixed  it  rather  soon. 

It  was  pointed  out  to  him  by  his  sisters  that  he 
had  kept  the  girl  waiting  for  him  ten  years — the 


The  "  Rich  Uncle's  "  Cottage       31 

best  ten  years  of  her  life.  How  pretty  and 
"smart"  she  was, — and  how  faithful! 

The  trap  shut  down  with  a  final  click  then. 
How  could  he  be  an  utter  cad,  how  could  he  spoil 
the  girl's  life?  Instead,  he  preferred  to  spoil 
two. 

Mr.  Higgins  came  quickly  forward  with  the 
gift  of  a  furnished  cottage,  where  the  nature 
studies  Michael  had  been  commissioned  to  write 
could  be  done  in  congenial  surroundings,  and 
practically  free  of  expense.  So  Michael,  who 
had  landed  healthy,  happy,  moneyless,  and  free, 
found  himself  within  a  few  weeks  with  an  assured 
and  lucrative  post  on  a  good  paper,  and  a  wife 
who,  as  everybody  said,  had  been  "made  for 
him." 

While  Uncle  William,  dozing  replete  over  a 
roaring  fire,  grunted  disjointed  things  as  to  love's 
young  dream,  the  happy  dreamers,  in  company 
with  a  restless  and  egotistical  pig,  bumped  hope- 
lessly along  a  never-ending  road,  huddled  miser- 
ably on  a  veritable  car  of  Juggernaut,  chilled  to 
the  bone,  appalled  at  fate  and  each  other,  famished, 
the  very  spirit  dead  within  them. 

Michael  was  frankly  terrified  at  the  future,  and 
— at  himself.  The  future  he  did  not  know; 
himself  he  knew  too  well.  His  life  had  been  so 
full,  had  held  so  much  experience,  that  he  had 
often  felt  curiously  old  at  thirty-one;  now  he 
knew  that  he  was  a  great  deal  too  young,  for 
it  might  mean  fifty  years  more — with  Muriel. 


32  Vagabond  City 

He  had  been  in  England  only  a  few  weeks,  yet 
already  the  call  of  freedom  sounded,  and  the  chains 
hung  heavy. 

The  rain  grew  heavier,  a  sodden  mist  rose,  the 
falling  leaves  lay  dankly  massed  on  the  roads, 
death  on  their  weary  faces,  the  trees  hung  grey 
pessimistic  heads,  and  an  icy  wind  fell  like  a  blow 
on  the  travellers. 

Muriel  wondered  drearily  how  she  could  ever 
have  thought  "honeymoon"  a  romantic  alluring 
word — her  five  unmarried  sisters  would  not  envy 
her,  if  they  knew! 

The  pig  shrieked  with  angry  hunger  and  nibbled 
Muriel's  calves;  John  devoutly  hoped  that  he  'd 
get  his  ten  shillings  without  a  fuss;  and  the 
labouring  horse  cursed  all  the  tribe  of  mankind. 
And  still  they  crawled  along  the  dimming  inter- 
minable road. 

"What  is  the  fat  lady's  husband?"  demanded 
Michael  of  John,  breaking  a  rather  desperate 
silence. 

John'  spat  contemptuously  into  the  road. 

"Him!  Oh!  a  casher  at  the  bank — Southampton 
West  ..." 

"Cashier?" 

"That's  what  I  said!"  the  youth  lashed  the 
tired  horse  angrily.  "A  casher,  cartloads  of  gold 
passin'  through  his  hands,  and  him  no  better  for 
it."  Scorn  twisted  his  heavy  mouth.  "An'  five 
ugly  dartars — huh!  An'  a  boy  a  fair  terror!" 
Another  flick  at  the  horse. 


The  "Rich  Uncle's"  Cottage       33 

"He  certainly  seems  to  have  missed  his  oppor- 
tunities," agreed  Mick. 

"  She  goes  in  twice  a  week,  cheap  days,  to  do 
her  shoppin'  .  .  .  they  lives  in  one  o'  them  little 
new  red  brick  houses  comm'  from  Totton 
but  they  can't  afford  to  keep  no  servant  though 
he  is  a  casher  ...  as  if  a  pound  or  two  o'  them 
cartloads  .  .  .  !"  The  lean,  long  man  was  ob- 
viously a  fool. 

Michael  nodded  in  grave  agreement.  "Plainly 
he  lacks  judiciousness,"  he  said. 

"There's  the  pig  again,"  complained  Muriel 
pettishly.  ' '  Can't  you  keep  it  at  the  back,  Mick? ' ' 

"The  church,"  said  John,  pointing  ahead, 
hoping  to  divert  Muriel's  attention  from  the  antics 
of  the  valuable  pig. 

"Father's  is  much  bigger  and  nicer,"  she  re- 
torted, with  an  angry  sniff.  She  frowned  to  see 
her  husband's  eyes  grow  suddenly  introspective. 
He  was  always  "wandering."  A  fierce  futile 
jealousy  seized  upon  her;  he  was  for  ever  going  on 
alone,  seeing  something  she  could  not  see,  hearing 
something  she  might  not  hear.  And  they  were 
on  their  honeymoon,  and  she  was  a  bride!  He 
should  have  only  one  thought;  there  should  be  no 
unshared  thing  between  them. 

"What  is  it  now?"  she  cried,  exasperated. 

Mick's  eyes  still  held  a  mystical  vision.  He 
stared  at  the  steep  steps  leading  to  the  churchyard. 
"The  sound  of  rain  on  a  coffin, "  he  said,  dreamily. 

"Coffins  now!"  cried    the  unfortunate  young 


34  Vagabond  City 

wife,  shivering.  "What  next?  Mine,  I  suppose !  I 
wish  you  would  not  behave  like  this,  it  is  horrible. " 

He  pulled  himself  together,  forced  a  smile,  and 
laughingly  apologised. 

"I  am  horribly  sorry,  and  it 's  a  queer  uncanny 
thing  .  .  .  my  nurse  warned  me.  She  said  the 
seventh  son  of  a  seventh  son,  and  a  Celt  at  that, 
was  foredoomed  to  visions.  I  used  to  laugh  then 
...  I  don't  always  laugh  now.  There  's  some 
power  at  the  back  of  things  that  makes  me  see 
what  I  have  no  right  to  see,  know  what  it  seems 
impossible  I  should  know  ..." 

"Then  you  must  be  mad!"  exclaimed  Muriel  in 
horror. 

His  grey  eyes  laughed  at  her,  still  full  of  their 
dreams.  "Not  in  the  Hanwell  sense  of  the  word, " 
he  reassured  her;  "I'm  merely  the  victim  of  an 
extraordinary  imagination,  that  is  all.  Still,  from 
your  point  of  view,  no  doubt  I  'm  a  regular  Mad 
Hatter." 

"Your  people  are  not  like  that,  you  cannot 
blame  them. " 

"Blame  them!  Why  should  I?  It  is  they  who 
blame  me.  Let  'em — I  know  who  gets  the  most 
out  of  life.  Half  the  people  one  meets  never  live 
at  all,  as  I  would  count  life;  they  but  vegetate  in 
their  little  cabbage-patch.  It's  odd,"  he  went 
on  musingly,  "to  think  that  my  people  have  given 
me  what  they  do  not  themselves  possess — what 
a  fascination  lies  in  physiology!  I  wonder,  will 
my  children  be  Mad  Hatters  too?" 


The  "Rich  Uncle's"  Cottage       35 

Muriel  sat  back  rosy  with  offence;  not  because 
she  did  not  care  for  children,  she  hoped  for  them; 
but  because  one  ignored  such  possibilities  at  such 
a  time.  She  was  genuinely  shocked.  It  was 
already  beginning  to  occur  to  her  that  she  had 
married  a  man  who  ignored  nothing. 

"No  Man's  Land,"  interrupted  John,  pointing 
to  a  tiny  little  hamlet.  "We  go  up  that  hill 
yonder — where  we  '11  all  have  to  walk,  it  bein'  a 
nasty  bit,  an'  the  farm  an'  Rose  Cottage  be  atop 
on  the  moors."1 

Muriel  cheered  up  a  little  at  the  thought  of  a 
cozy  cottage  and  the  "divine  cooking"  of  Mrs. 
Hobbs.  She  walked  up  the  rough  hill  with  a  better 
grace  than  Mick  had  expected,  for  it  was  very 
stony,  and  rivulets  poured  down  it  and  over  her 
thin,  high-heeled  shoes. 

"It'll  be  a  nasty  bit  for  our  bicycles,"  he 
remarked,  as  he  helped  her  along,  "but  I  'm  glad 
we  're  on  the  moors. " 

"That 's  Pig  Farm,"  announced  John  proudly. 

Muriel  looked  without  interest  at  the  scattered 
sties.  "What  a  lot  of  pigs,"  she  cried,  resent- 
fully. "And  look  at  that  big  pig-sty  at  the  end 
there!" 

John  chuckled,  and  laughed,  and  chuckled,  and 
gasped  out  at  length,  "That  be  Rose  Cottage." 

Muriel  clung  helplessly  to  Michael's  arm. 
Speech  was  beyond  her.  The  bridegroom  swore 
softly,  knitting  savage  brows  in  the  semi-darkness. 

1  Cottage  and  pig  farm  imaginary. 


36  Vagabond  City 

"Good  God!  How  like  a  rich  relation!"  he  said 
at  length. 

The  great  and  successful  Uncle  William  had  not 
appealed  to  him.  He  had  thought  him  pompous, 
as  well  as  more  than  a  trifle  vulgar  and  ridiculous. 
Now  he  hated  him.  To  be  crowded  in  that  in- 
adequate space  for  months  with  Muriel!  It  was 
unthinkable ! 

"Damn  him!"  he  said  viciously,  "damn  him!" 

But  Uncle  William  dozed  repletely  complacent 
by  the  fire  just  the  same. 

Though  Muriel  knew  it  was  wicked  to  damn  a 
rich  relation,  for  once  she  did  not  care.  "It  can't 
be  Rose  Cottage,  it  can't!"  she  wailed. 

"It  does  stand  on  a  high  hill,"  remarked  Mick 
sardonically,  "and  commands  an  excellent  view — 
of  piggeries!" 

Muriel  laid  down  her  head  on  his  arm  and  wept 
tears  of  utter  exhaustion  and  most  bitter  disap- 
pointment. Perhaps  Mrs.  Dalton  had  pronounced 
Rose  Cottage  almost  too  much  like  a  smart  shoot- 
ing-box to  prepare  her  daughter  for  realities.  And 
the  bridegroom  continued  to  commit  blasphemy 
on  the  matter  of  Uncle  William  and  all  that  was 
his. 

Then  compunction  stirred  belated,  and  he  turned 
to  his  wife.  After  all  it  was  much  worse  for  her. 
"Cheer  up,  old  girl,"  he  said  kindly.  "All  the 
goods  are  not  in  the  shop-window,  and  I  daresay 
it  will  be  cozy  enough  inside.  At  any  rate  there 
will  be  fire  and  food." 


CHAPTER  III 

WHY  THE  BRIDEGROOM  CONSIDERED  THE  CHAR-LADY 
A  LUCKY  DEVIL. 

JOHN  was  busy  handing  their  belongings  out  of 
the  trap,  and  Mick  helped  him  with  the  heavy 
things.  The  cottage  door  was  flung  open,  and  dark- 
ness, revealed  rather  than  relieved  by  a  guttering 
tallow  candle,  exposed. 

"There  is  no  fire, "  said  Muriel  tragically,  her 
sobs  ceasing  with  sheer  horror. 

Having  dragged  the  last  box  inside  the  dark 
habitation,  the  attitude  of  John  became  defiant. 

"Ten  shillings  is  just  nothin'  at  all  for  such  a  way 
and  all  them  boxes,"  he  announced. 

Mick  handed  it  over  without  comment,  and  John 
drove  away  towards  the  pig  farm.  His  cottage, 
half  a  mile  beyond  it,  was  comfortable  enough, 
and  he  had  no  intention  of  being  persuaded  to  stay 
and  "lend  a  hand."  The  Talbots  entered  the 
cold  bare  place  in  silence,  shutting  the  door  after 
them. 

"It  will  be  unnecessary  to  mention  Uncle  Wil- 
liam in  your  prayers  to-night,"  said  Michael 
grimly. 

37 


38  Vagabond  City 

"I  was  n't  going  to, "  whimpered  Muriel.  "And 
there  doesn't  seem  any  Mrs.  Hobbs!" 

"But  there's  a  strong  smell  of  whisky!"  he 
grunted. 

They  stood  stricken  into  silence.  Muriel's  feel- 
ings were  too  terrible  for  words,  and  Michael's  words 
too  terrible  for  utterance  before  a  quite  new  wife. 

"What  a  comedy — if  only  it  had  happened  to 
someone  else,"  he  said  at  length.  "Uncle  Wil- 
liam on  his  honeymoon  for  instance!" 

"He  went  to  a  big  hotel." 

"Yes;  he  would." 

"The  smell  of  whisky  always  make  me  feel 
sick!"  burst  out  Muriel. 

"  It 's  the  lack  of  it  that  upsets  me,"  he  growled. 
"It 's  little  more  than  the  smell  we  're  goin'  to  see 
of  it — or  of  Mrs.  Hobbs  either!" 

"I  shouldn't  wonder  if  the  wretched  woman 
was  lying  dead  drunk  in  a  ditch  somewhere," 
choked  Muriel.  "She  used  to  drink — before  she 
reformed. " 

"And  now  she  's  reformed  and  drunk, "  retorted 
Michael.  He  had  a  sudden  vision  of  a  charwoman 
reposing,  oblivious  of  rain,  marriage,  or  any  other 
trial,  peacefully  in  a  ditch. 

"I  only  wish  I  was!"  he  muttered  to  himself. 

Then  he  looked  at  the  picture  of  sodden  misery 
he  had  sworn  to  cherish.  Something  must  be 
done,  and  done  quickly.  No  fire,  no  supper,  no 
whisky — Good  Lord!  no  whisky!  Fortunately 
his  wild  life  had  made  him  handy  enough. 


Bridegroom's  "Luck"  vs.  Char-Lady    39 

"Look  here,  Muriel,  I  '11  see  if  Mrs.  Hobbs  is  to 
be  found,  first  thing."  He  took  up  the  bicycle 
lamp  as  he  spoke.  "She  mayn't  be  too  far  gone 
to  do  something — and  she  may  n't  have  drunk  it 
all,"  he  added,  hopefully. 

He  groped  about  the  big  living-room ;  even  looked 
under  the  sofa  for  Mrs.  Hobbs.  He  tried  the 
back  kitchen,  the  big  bedroom  upstairs,  where  two 
beds  served  as  convenient  water-catchers.  He 
moved  them  out  of  the  worst  of  the  rain  pouring 
from  the  leaking  roof,  and  put  a  jug  and  basin  to 
catch  as  much  as  possible.  Then  he  put  a  dis- 
couraged face  into  the  tiny  attic  over  the  back 
kitchen,  which  was  to  serve  as  his  dressing-room, 
and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  neither  Mrs. 
Hobbs  nor  the  bottle  were  in  the  cottage.  Finally, 
he  discovered  both  in  a  ditch  outside.  She  was 
lying  on  her  back,  the  bottle — only  too  obviously 
empty — clasped  to  her  bosom,  and  the  lamp  re- 
vealed her  face  covered  with  a  smile  of  blissful 
content. 

Michael  stared  at  her  gloomily.  She  had  not 
just  got  married  to  someone  she  did  not  want ;  she 
was  not  conscious  of  the  wet,  supperless,  whisky- 
less,  irritated  almost  beyond  endurance;  she  had  n't 
an  Uncle  William  in  the  family! 

"Lucky  devil!"  he  exclaimed,  gazing  at  her 
enviously.  "Lucky,  lucky  devil!"  Then  he  re- 
turned to  his  wife.  " '  The  world  forgetting,  by  the 
world  forgot' — in  a  ditch,"  he  explained. 

"Disgusting!     But  I  knew  it!"  was  Muriel's 


40  Vagabond  City 

comment.  "  Mick,  I  am  chilled  through.  Suppose  I 
get  pneumonia,  and  no  doctor  for  miles " 

"We  should  have  brought  the  bottle  our- 
selves  " 

"Or  no  clergyman  really  close,"  pursued  the 
gloomy  Muriel. 

"  Would  he  lend  me  some  do  you  think? "  Mick 
brightened. 

"I  was  talking  of  pneumonia,  not  whisky,"  in 
huffy  tones. 

"Of  course  you'd  want  a  doctor,  but  why  a 
clergyman?"  He  was  honestly  puzzled. 

"Father  always  visited  the  sick  and  read  to 
them " 

"And  did  they  ever  recover?  "  he  asked,  solemnly, 
his  lips  twitching  before  a  mental  vision  of  his 
rigid  and  prosy  father-in-law  reading  the  offices 
of  the  sick  over  his  recumbent  body. 

"That 's  not  the  point.     Sick  people " 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course,"  impatiently.  "The  odour 
of  sanctity  and  all  that — whatever  your  previous 
life  may  have  been ;  but  as  we  're  neither  of  us  sick 
we  may  hope  to  escape  that  last  unpleasantness. 
That  fire's  going  to  be  alight  in  a  few  moments!" 
He  looked  with  vicious  determination  at  the  damp 
debris  in  the  grate. 

"There  are  no  sticks,"  she  said,  hopelessly. 
"Hooked." 

"Then  here  goes  for  one  of  Uncle  William's 
chairs,"  he  retorted.  "May  he  eventually  serve 
to  light  another  fire!"  He  smashed  up  the  chair 


Bridegroom's  "Luck"  vs.  Char-Lady    41 

with  gusto.     It  might  almost  have  been  the  owner 
himself. 

He  was  very  busy  for  a  few  moments  while  his 
wife  watched  him — wondering  how  she  was  to 
endure  life  with  this  strange  rough  man.  She 
dropped  wearily  at  last  into  the  long  low  chair  by 
the  hearth — only  to  spring  up  with  a  piercing 
scream. 

"Good  God!  What 's  the  matter  now!"  burst 
from  Michael,  spilling  the  matches  inside  the  damp 
fender. 

"Hush  .  .  .  !  I  sat  on  the  brush  and  dust- 
tray — whatever  did  you  put  them  down  there 
for?" 

"I  didn't."  He  was  groping,  irritated,  after 
the  lost  matches.  "Why  didn't  you  look  before 
you  leapt — sat,  I  mean?" 

Muriel  was  too  angry  to  answer.  She  watched 
her  husband's  attempts  with  sullen  eyes,  and  was 
almost  glad,  when,  after  many  efforts  with  damp 
matches  to  get  damp  wood  and  paper  alight,  he 
was  driven  back,  choking,  by  volumes  of  smoke. 
"Uncle  William  seems  to  have  thought  of  so 
much  for  our  comfort,"  he  remarked,  "that  it 
seems  a  pity  he  should  have  omitted  to  send  a 
postal  order  to  the  sweep  to  have  the  chimney 
swept.  Take  the  lamp  and  see  if  you  can  find  any 
paraffin  about — unless  she  's  drunk  that. " 

After,  a  long,  dispirited  search  the  young  wife 
returned  with  the  paraffin,  her  voice  shaking  with 
indignation  as  she  described  how  she  had  found  it, 


42  Vagabond  City 

keeping  the  solitary  loaf  company,  in  the  bread 
pan. 

For  the  first  time  Michael  laughed — and  his 
laughter  was  singularly  boyish  and  light-hearted. 
"I  say,  Muriel,  let's  pretend  it's  funny!"  he 
suggested. 

"Funny!"  cried  Muriel,  in  indescribable  tones. 
"You  can  call  it  funny?"  Her  voice  rose  in  shrill 
indignation.  "You  would  think  it  funny  to  roll 
down  that  awful  hill,  I  suppose?" 

"It  would  depend  on  the  roller,"  he  returned 
cheerfully.  "Now,  I  can  see  our  kind  friend  the 
suet-pudding  bouncing  along  like  an  india-rubber 
ball,  and  though  it  wouldn't  be  funny  to  her,  it 
would  to  the  onlookers.  It 's  only  when  they 
happen  to  yourself  that  misfortunes  of  that  type 
are  n't  funny — but  how  we  should  laugh  if  this 
were  somebody  else's  honeymoon. " 

"I  shouldn't,"  said  Muriel,  truly  enough.  "I 
should  be  too  sorry  for  them,  especially  for  her — " 

"Well,  on  the  stage — you  'd  laugh  then?" 

"Only  because  it  was  meant  to  be  funny," 
triumphantly,  "and  wasn't  true.  It's  dreadful, 
not  funny.  A  horrid,  mousy-smelling,  little,  back 
kitchen  with  a  fixed  bath — such  a  common  idea! 
What  is  it  like  upstairs?" 

"It  might  be  worse,"  he  answered,  cautiously, 
"after  I  've  got  a  fire  going  there  too.  ..." 

"Is  it  damp?  Does  the  roof  leak?  I  'd  rather 
be  prepared  for  the  worst." 

"Well — you  won't  lack  rain-water  for  your  com- 


Bridegroom's  ''Luck"  vs.  Char-Lady    43 

plexion,  but  I  Ve  moved  the  beds  out  of  the  worst, 
and  we  '11  dry  them  as  soon  as  possible.  I  rather 
imagine  it  would  be  a  case  of  sleeping  under  um- 
brellas if  we  had  them.  There  seem  to  be  more 
holes  than  roof.  Your  uncle  promised  that  we 
should  get  close  to  nature,  you  know." 

"And  we  're  doomed  to  this  pig-sty  for  months 
and  months !  Uncle  William  is  a  mean  wretch,  but 
he  can't  live  for  ever,  and  then " 

"Billie"  (he  alluded  to  the  youngest  hope  of  the 
Daltons)  "put  it  with  dreadful  vulgarity  at  your 
wedding.  He  said:  'Say!  Doesn't  Uncle  Wil- 
liam look  as  if  he  might  burst  any  minute,  and  he's 
my  godfather,  you  know!  Then  I  should  keep  a 
motor  car  and  three  ferrets  with  my  share.' 
Still  matters  might  be  worse.  After  all,  Muriel, 
the  pig-sty  is  n't  inhabited  by  a  pig — I  'm  not 
altogether  that,  am  I,  old  girl?"  He  laid  a  dirty 
hand  on  hers. 

She  made  no  reply. 

"Come,  dear,"  he  went  on,  with  a  cheerfulness 
he  did  not  feel.  "We  're  dished  now,  so  to  speak, 
and  have  got  to  make  the  best  of  circumstances 
and  each  other.  I  '11  try  if  you  will—  He  ended 
with  a  sigh,  for  another  woman's  face  rose,  unbid- 
den, before  him.  Why  should  he  think  of  the  Elf 
now? 

Muriel  drew  her  hand  away,  wiping  it  carefully 
on  her  handkerchief,  thereby  somewhat  spoiling 
the  whiteness  of  that  article. 

She  had  not  expected  marriage  to  be  like  this; 


44  Vagabond  City 

she  had  always  looked  upon  it  as  something 
vaguely  and  conventionally  romantic.  It  had 
been  romantic  to  be  in  love  at  eighteen  with  a 
good-looking  boy  who  was  said  to  have  a  career 
before  him — a  boy  who  found  no  difficulty  in 
saying  very  pretty  things  by  the  light  of  the 
moon.  It  was  romantic  to  remain  in  love,  and 
faithful  for  ten  whole  years,  even  though  he 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  her,  and  it  was  useless 
writing  since  he  had  become  a  man  without  an 
address.  Of  course,  if  during  those  ten  years 
a  better  match  had  turned  up,  she  would  have 
conquered  her  feelings  and  taken  it — for  the  sake 
of  her  parents  and  sisters.  It  would  have  been 
her  Duty.  But  nobody  else  had  ever  "made  her 
an  offer."  They  had  always  just  stopped  short 
of  that.  Once  or  twice  at  Uncle  William's  she  had 
feared  she  might  have  to  be  put  to  the  test,  but, 
somehow,  it  had  never  got  so  far.  The  eligible 
had  inspected — and  gone  away  again.  So  she  had 
remained  faithful  to  the  love  of  her  youth. 

It  was  very  exciting  when  Michael  Talbot  came 
home — and  to  a  post  that  might  lead  to  really 
good  things  in  the  journalistic  world.  A  friend 
who  knew  the  needs  of  Fleet  Street  had  said  to  her, 
"Talbot  has  all  of  a  thousand  or  two  thousand  a 
year  in  those  big  fingers  of  his — if  he  would  but 
settle  down,"  and  had  added,  though  not  to 
Muriel,  "But,  faith,  he  '11  never  do  that,  or  gather 
the  moss;  he  's  a  dreamer,  sure,  and  the  wanderlust 
will  have  his  soul  yet.  He  '11  be  trekking  for  the 


Bridegroom's  "Luck'*  vs.  Char-Lady    45 

sea's  highway,  the  East  India  Dock  Road  again, 
you  mark  my  words,  an'  goin'  aboard  the  first  old 
hulk  ...  we  all  know  Mick  Talbot,  a  clever  divil, 
but  queer,  damn  queer.  ..." 

No,  he  had  given  Muriel  the  possibilities,  not 
the  probabilities.  Michael  Talbot  did  not  even 
desire  money;  he  could  always  make  enough,  by 
physical  labour  if  need  be,  for  the  needs  of  the  day, 
and  his  temperament  knew  no  morrow. 

Mick  had  come  upon  Muriel  with  a  little  sense 
of  shock;  he  seemed  very  strange,  very  unlike  the 
callow  boy  of  her  tepid  love,  very  unlike  the  image 
she  had  set  up.  Still,  when  the  first  shock  had 
passed  she  had  assured  herself  that  her  feelings 
were  unchanged.  She  would  care  just  the  same 
when  she  got  accustomed  to  him,  find,  perhaps,  he 
was  not  essentially  altered  after  all.  In  the  big 
sense  of  the  word,  neither  a  man,  nor  a  man's 
love,  were  within  her  needs  or  understanding;  she 
wanted  what  Mick  could  never  give — the  shallow 
echo  of  a  shallow,  callow  love.  Unfortunately, 
Mick's  nature  was  not  small  enough  for  that  and 
hers.  He  could  give  much;  he  could  never  learn 
to  give  little.  With  all  his  grave  faults,  he  stood 
on  a  height  miles  above  the  vision  of  the  woman  he 
had  married.  Neither  a  hero,  nor  a  good  man,  he 
yet  had  within  him  the  possibilities  of  greatness, 
of  nobility,  of  sacrifice.  And  Muriel  had  been  born 
without  possibilities. 

No  more  the  boy-lover  but  a  stranger!  Then 
came  the  assurance — when  he  kissed  her — that 


46  Vagabond  City 

he  had  been  faithful  too;  that  she  had  remained 
through  ten  long  years  his  own  ideal.  She  was 
very  simple  for  all  her  shrewdness.  For  a  moment 
she  was  visited  by  a  light  such  as  never  shone  on 
her  again.  She  had  strained  upwards  to  the  face 
of  love  through  the  veil  of  illusion.  Later,  the  veil 
was  rent — and  there  was  only  blankness  behind. 

During  the  short  engagement,  she  was  too  busy 
with  her  trousseau  to  see  much  of  Michael,  and 
she  thought  it  very  good  of  him  not  to  bother  her. 
It  never  dawned  upon  her  that  the  less  he  saw  of  his 
fiancee,  the  more  he  was  pleased. 

Then,  three  days  ago,  marriage,  and  disillusion 
after  disillusion.  She  had  not  married  the  boy  at 
all,  she  had  married  a  stranger,  a  man  of  many 
moods — of  a  type  she  most  of  all  disliked  and  dis- 
trusted. There  was  nothing  left  but  to  make  the 
best  of  it. 

If  only  Michael  were  not  so — so  primitive  (that 
on  the  whole  seemed  the  best  word),  so  uncivilised! 
Later  on,  when  he  became  successful  and  saved 
money,  it  would  be  easier.  There  would  be  a  nice 
home,  perhaps  even  a  certain  position:  she  would 
have  her  social  life,  her  children,  he,  his  work. 
But  sometimes  it  took  rather  a  long  time  to  be 
successful-. 

"How  thoughtful  you  look!"  he  said,  tapping 
her  knee.  "When  the  weather  changes  we'll  be 
as  jolly  as  sandboys. " 

"Oh  yes!"  she  assented  absently. 

Her  thoughts  took  a  slightly  different  trend. 


Bridegroom's  "Luck"  vs.  Char-Lady    47 

What  a  pity  women  had  to  marry  anybody  they 
could,  or  be  old  maids !  What  a  pity  clergymen  so 
often  had  such  huge  families.  It  seemed  very 
curious.  What  a  pity  that  in  her  own  case  there 
had  been  six  unmarried  and  rather  stupid  and  ig- 
norant daughters,  with  nothing  but  marriage,  or 
ill-paid  drudgery,  to  look  forward  to!  What  a 
pity  one  fell  in  love  so  easily  at  eighteen,  and  out 
as  easily  at  twenty-eight!  Mick  was  a  stranger — • 
not  even  a  nice  stranger.  He  had  all  sorts  of 
"dreadful  ideas. "  He  had  not  even  the  considera- 
tion and  decency  to  hide  them;  and  he  was  con- 
tinually offending  her  sense  of  ultra-refinement. 
He  was  so  coarse  and  vulgar!  It  was  hard,  for 
only  he  had  changed;  she  was  just  the  same,  not 
"a  day  older  in  any  way."  (She  was  very  proud 
of  that.)  Why  had  things  gone  wrong  from  the 
start?  Why  had  the  rich  relation  done  this  cruel 
evil  to  them?  Why  had  they  to  appear  grateful 
for  the  sake  of  possible  benefits  to  come,  and  be- 
cause it  would  be  wasteful  in  their  position  to  pay 
for  a  house,  when  they  could  get  one  for  nothing? 
Why  had  Aunt  Susan  withheld  the  expected 
cheque?  Was  her  poisoned  dart  true — and  did 
Mick  possess  the  awful  artistic  temperament  of 
which  she  had  heard  so  much,  and  never  anything 
good? 

And  finally,  why  was  Mrs.  Hobbs  drunk,  and 
the  dust-tray  left  in  the  chair? 

"I  '11  get  the  damned  thing  to  light  if  I  sit  here 
for  a  week!"  exploded  Mick. 


48  Vagabond  City 

His  wife  eyed  him  with  increased  disfavour, 
making  no  allowance  for  justifiable  irritation.  "I 
think  you  forget,"  she  said,  in  her  best  manner, 
"that  a  gentleman  does  not  swear  before  a  lady." 

"And  you  forget — that  you  are  n't  a  'lady' 
now,"  grinned  Mick,  "but  merely  my  wife.  I'm 
not  a  gentleman,  never  was,  never  will  be.  Why, 
woman  alive,  I  have  n't  a  single  gentlemanly  at- 
tribute— a  settled  income,  a  motor-car,  even 
really  decent  shirt-studs!"  He  laughed,  unen- 
viously,  adding,  "Nor  want  'em!" 

"But  you  have  to  try  for  them,"  said  Muriel, 
clasping  her  hands  tightly.  "Those  are  the  sort 
of  things  that  matter,  that  a  man  owes  his  wife. 
It  is  n't  so  much  the  doing  without.  It 's  knowing 
other  women  know  you  have  to,  and  look  down 
upon  you  and  snub  you  and  despise  you " 

He  stared  at  her  in  genuine  surprise.  "But  do 
they  ?  I  mean,  are  there  women  like  that  ? ' ' 

"Of  course  there  are " 

"But  why  know  them?"  His  brows  were  knit. 
"They  must  be  rather  impossible  sort  of  people. 
I  should  not  like  my  wife  to  recognise  them. " 

"Oh,  Mick,  how  can  you  be  so  foolish,  talk  such 
nonsense!  Probably  they  would  not  even  call 
upon  me,  let  me  be  in  their  set " 

"Set?"  His  eyes  were  wide  with  amazement. 
"Do  you  mean  you  wish  to  be  rich,  so  as  to  be  in 
a  rich  set,  irrespective  of  whether  your  so-called 
friends  are  nice  or  intelligent  or  well-bred?  Good 
Lord!" 


Bridegroom's  "Luck''  vs.  Char-Lady    49 

"I  wish  you  were  an  author  instead  of  a  jour- 
nalist^ "  she  frowned.  "It  sounds  so  much  better, 
and  comes  in  handy  at  teas — " 

"Handy  at  teas?" 

"For  talking  about.  I  wish  you  'd  write  a  book 
that  would  make  you  rich  and  famous  right  off." 

"I'll  become  an  author  to  please  you — and 
hang  the  expense!"  he  said  gaily.  "In  fact  I 
always  intended  to  write  a  book  when  I  stayed 
long  enough  anywhere.  Do  you  mind  holding 
the  matches  for  a  moment  ?  There  !  The  fire  is 
alight  at  last,  and  I  '11  have  a  go  at  the  other.  It 's 
sure  to  stop  raining  to-morrow,  and,  anyway,  a 
bad  beginning  is  better  than  a  bad  ending.  Mrs. 
Hobbs  will  be  as  a  worm  that  turneth  not  in  the 
morning,  and  you  '11  have  the  housewifely  joy 
of  putting  the  fear  of  the  Lord  into  her!" 

"Don't  be  profane!  I  wish  you'd  remember 
we  Ve  been  religiously  brought  up." 

Mick  gave  an  expressive  whistle.  "So  that 
was  why  Tom  ran  away  to  sea,"  he  observed 
thoughtfully.  "I've  often  wondered." 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  CHAR-LADY  RISES  TO  THE  OCCASION 

IN  stating  that  matters  would  be  sure  to  improve 
on  the  morrow,  Michael  was  optimistic  rather 
than  correct.  If  it  were  possible  for  it  to  rain 
harder,  it  did  so.  The  mist  thickened,  coldness, 
bareness,  utter  desolation,  were  all  around.  The 
moors  were  nothing  but  a  sea  of  mist  and  rain. 
Except  the  pig  farm,  which  was  too  near  for  their 
taste,  and  the  woodman's  cottage,  there  was  no 
sign  of  life  about  the  place.  Sometimes  a  weird 
shape  rose  out  of  the  gloom,  and  a  forest  pony  fled 
startled  past  them.  It  was  all  very  appalling  to 
Muriel  Talbot. 

The  cottage  was  only  half  furnished,  and  icy 
draughts  penetrated  everywhere.  Michael  wired 
for  some  furniture  from  London  but  it  went  to  the 
Dock  station  instead  of  Southampton  West,  and 
was  stuck  there  for  some  days. 

Mick  blamed  the  furnishing  company,  but 
Muriel  blamed  Mick,  and  could  not,  or  would  not, 
let  the  subject  drop. 

Mr.  Higgins  wrote  a  gracious  line, — the  letter  of 
a  benefactor  to  those  infinitely  benefited  and  cor- 

50 


Char-Lady  Rises  to  the  Occasion    51 

respondingly  grateful— congratulating  them  on 
"being  as  snug  as  two  birds  in  their  cosy  nest  be- 
fore the  rain  came  on,"  and  hoped  they  had  more 
than  realised  their  expectations  in  every  way. 
And  Muriel  wrote  back,  the  letter  of  the  benefited, 
and  said  they  had. 

The  bath  was  another  trouble.  A  bath  in  the 
back  kitchen  seemed  a  "very  low  and  indecent 
idea"  to  Muriel,  and  not  any  the  less  so,  when  she 
discovered,  to  her  horror,  that  the  rutty  lane  lead- 
ing past  the  window  was  the  highroad  of  the  farm 
people,  and  that  the  window  was  indecorously  large 
and  blindless.  She  became  positively  tragic  on  the 
subject  of  the  bath. 

That  the  matter  troubled  Michael  so  little,  was 
another  grievance.  He  merely  made  a  joke  out  of 
it.  "Of  course  being  a  journalist  and  prospective 
author,"  he  grinned,  "I  should  learn  to  rejoice 
in  the  blaze  of  publicity.  Many  of  the  leading 
citizens  of  No  Man's  Land  must  know  me  quite 
well  already.  I  shall  probably  end  by  being 
famous  as  'the  man  in  the  bath'  and  attain  to 
the  lasting  pinnacle  of  fame  achieved  by  'the 
Man  in  the  Mask.'  Once  I  was  afraid  I  had  too 
much  modesty  ever  to  become  really  successful  as 
an  author.  It 's  a  sad  disability. "  All  the  same, 
he  went  to  a  great  deal  of  trouble  to  hang  garments, 
that  did  not  always  keep  fixed,  over  the  window  in 
the  early  mornings. 

"  I  shan't  have  another  bath  till  the  blind  comes," 
announced  Muriel  defiantly.  "I  daren't!  The 


52  Vagabond  City 

skirt  would  go  all  askew  just  as  I  got  into  the  bath, 
and  I  couldn't  risk  getting  out  to  put  it  straight,  and 
then  the  postman —  "  she  broke  off  with  a  shudder. 
"Mick,  you  must  speak  to  the  postman!" 

"What  did  he  do?"  asked  Michael,  with  real 
interest.  "Post  letters  at  you  in  the  bath?" 

"He  simply  thundered  at  the  door  instead  of 
going  round,  and  shouted  for  it  to  be  opened. 
Then  when  I  pretended  I  wasn't  there " 

"In  spite  of  the  skirt  all  askew?" 

"He  fumbled  ever  so  hard  at  the  latch,  and  you 
know  how  rotten  everything  is.  Oh,  it  was  horrible ! 
Then,  he  went  to  the  window  and  began  to  poke 
about  to  see  if  anyone  was  there — and  I  got  my 
hair  all  wet  lying  in  the  bottom  of  the  bath  and 
was  nearly  drowned.  He  's  a  dreadful  man !  You 
must  tell  him,  never  on  any  account,  to  go  round 
to  the  back  kitchen,  even  it  if  is  a  short-cut  for  him. 
The  whole  bath  arrangements  are  simply  an  out- 
rage! I  'd  like  to  see  Uncle  William  have  his  bath 
there!"  she  added  fiercely. 

Michael,  purposely  misunderstanding,  affected 
to  be  horrified  at  such  a  dubious  wish,  and  Muriel 
was  shocked  at  his  jesting  words.  But  then  she 
was  so  much  more  often  shocked  than  not. 

Michael  could  only  shrug  helpless  shoulders. 
Every  hour  spent  together  deepened  the  feeling 
of  strain ;  every  day  the  distance  between  them  grew. 
Even  their  silences  were  antagonistic.  They 
were  so  appallingly  close  in  the  poky  cottage — and 
so  appallingly  far!  There  were  times  when  Mick 


Char-Lady  Rises  to  the  Occasion    53 

was  fain  to  hope  that  he  might  not  come  to  hate 
his  wife  in  the  end;  for  that  awful  thing  reared  its 
head  between  them. 

Discomfort  that  could  have  been  endured  under 
different  circumstances  with  a  light  enough  heart, 
was  well-nigh  intolerable. 

The  place  was  like  a  bam;  half  the  necessaries  of 
existence  were  lacking.  Upstairs  the  water  still 
poured  through  the  roof,  the  steady  drip,  drip  of 
rain  murdered  sleep,  and  the  wind  screamed  fiend- 
ishly through  the  broken  panes. 

There  was  nothing  to  mend  them  with;  he  had 
tried  brown  paper,  but  that  had  been  drenched  by 
the  rain  and  quickly  torn  away.  The  joiner  Mick 
had  unearthed  said  he  was  coming — but  never 
came.  Things  began  to  get  badly  on  his  nerves — 
the  dreariness,  the  constraint,  the  steady  drip 
of  the  rain  at  night,  the  breathing,  a  few  yards 
away,  of  the  wife  he  had  never  wanted,  and  for 
whom  he  felt  a  positive  distaste  at  such  times.  She 
was  part  of  the  new  chain  civilisation  had  flung 
round  his  neck.  He  was  never  to  be  free  of  her, 
and  what  she  stood  for,  till  death  set  him  free. 
Death  which  lay  perhaps  half  a  century  off! 

He  would  lie  awake  with  the  song  of  Vagabondia 
calling  in  the  night  watches;  with  syren  voices 
singing  in  his  ears — and  how  mocking  the  call  of 
freedom  sounded  to  a  bound  man !  How  far  away 
the  healing  touch  of  the  sea,  the  wild,  wet,  howling 
roadway  he  loved!  "In  the  dead,  unhappy  night, 
and  when  the  rain  is  on  the  roof,"  he  quoted  to 


54  Vagabond  City 

himself  one  dawn,  while  the  face  of  another  than 
his  wife  beckoned  him  out  of  the  grey  gloom, 
smiled  at  him  elfishly. 

"If  only  I  had  guessed  in  time  it  was  like  that!" 
he  thought  despairingly.  "But  how  was  I  to 
know?" 

He  had  had  no  suspicion  till  it  was  too  late. 
Who  could  guess  that  such  a  thing  would  grow  out 
of  a  three  weeks'  intimate  friendship  in  the  little 
inn  of  a  wild  Swiss  mountain  pass?  He  had  had 
other  friendships,  held  them  still;  but  no  such  mad- 
ness had  come  of  them. 

In  the  morning,  however,  he  would  thrust  such 
thoughts  away,  and  try  to  cheer  up  the  woman 
tied  to  him ;  for,  after  all,  the  tragedy  must  be  hers 
as  well.  He  would  point  out  how  much  worse  it 
might  have  been,  and  remind  her  that  the  man 
really  was  coming  to  mend  the  roof.  But  Muriel 
merely  thought  him  flippant. 

Mrs.  Hobbs  appeared  on  the  third  day  of  their 
martyrdom,  entering  with  an  air  of  righteous  deter- 
mination that  rather  startled  Michael,  who  saw  her 
coming  first. 

"What  is  she  like?"  asked  the  bride  nervously, 
for  after  all  to  lose  Mrs.  Hobbs  would  be 
unthinkable. 

"A  cataclysm,  or  the  Day  of  Judgment,"  he 
returned.  "Anything  else  would  understate  it. 
She  is  also  the  most  appallingly  respectable-looking 
female  I  ever  saw — and  the  ditch  episode  can  only 
have  been  an  optical  illusion!  I  don't  think  I 


Char-Lady  Rises  to  the  Occasion    55 

should  say  much  or  anything  if  I  were  you,  and 
she  's  quite  ten  feet  high.  I  think  I  'd  better  go, 
a  man  is  rather  in  the  way  at  domestic  crises," 
and,  in  spite  of  his  wife's  contemptuous  glance,  he 
went  and  hid  himself  in  the  dim  angle  of  the  stairs 
where,  himself  unseen,  he  could  hear  and  see 
everything.  He  hoped  Muriel  would  not  offend 
the  lady  who  could  cook  so  divinely. 

The  young  wife  might  have  been  excused  for 
shirking  her  task;  the  very  big  gaunt  lady  was 
formidable  in  more  senses  than  one.  Moreover, 
she  looked  absolute  mistress  of  the  situation.  Her 
right  eye  glittered  as  might  a  general's  on  the  eve 
of  warfare  and  certain  victory;  her  left,  and  less 
respectable,  orb  had  a  watery  inclination  to  roam 
cornerwise.  Mick  drew  his  long  legs  closer  out  of 
range. 

Muriel,  however,  fired  the  first  volley.  "Why 
were  you  not  here  on  Thursday?"  she  enquired. 
"There  was  nothing  ready;  no  fire,  no  food, 
and — the  paraffin  was  in  the  bread  pan!" 

Mrs.  Hobbs  cocked  a  contemptuous  eye — the 
right  one — "In  the  bread  pan,"  she  repeated; 
"I  've  no  patience  with  such  ways!  Sluts!" 

"And  who  left  it  there?"  enquired  Muriel. 

Mrs.  Hobbs  confessed  the  problem  beyond  her. 

"You  were  n't  anywhere  to  be  found,"  went  on 
the  young  wife,  "and — neither  was  Mr.  Talbot's 
whisky." 

Michael  admired  the  courage  of  his  wife  even 
while  he  wondered  at  it. 


56  Vagabond  City 

He  never  would  have  dared  mention  the  loss  of 
the  whisky  to  such  a  rigidly  respectable  woman. 
Impossible  to  believe  she  had  taken  it !  Impossible 
to  believe  he  had  seen  her  lying  in  the  ditch !  He 
would  as  soon  have  accused  an  archbishop. 

"I  was  havin'  one  of  me  worst  attacks  of  neu- 
ralgy, "  said  Mrs.  Hobbs  decidedly.  "Somethink 
frightful  they  is — Ho  yus !  The  sufferin'  is  some- 
think  croil,  and  I  'm  dead  to  the  world " 

"Yes,  dead  to  the  world  in  a  ditch." 

"It  comes  over  me  anyw'ys  and  I  drop  like  a 
felled  ox.  Ho  yus!" 

"You  were  drunk  in  the  ditch,"  accused  Muriel. 

"Now  she's  done  it!"  muttered  Mick  appre- 
hensively. 

Mrs.  Hobbs  fixed  Muriel  with  a  stern  right  eye, 
while  the  other  roamed  round  so  oddly  that  Mick 
cramped  his  long  limbs  into  a  yet  smaller  space. 
1 '  Who  are  you  a-libeUin'  ? ' '  she  demanded.  "Weak- 
nesses I  may  have,  owin'  to  pains  in  my  head,  but 
whisky  ain't  one.  of  them,  and  can  be  bought  any- 
time as  good  as  his  'n  with  my  own  money.  Come 
down  in  the  world  I  may  have  through  no  fault  of 
me  own,  but  I  've  got  a  character  just  the  same. 
I  'd  have  come  on  Thursday  in  spite  of  my  head  if 
I  had  n't  heard  as  Mr.  Talbot — which  I  expect  is 
an  alibi — was  a — journalist."  The  icy  scorn 
expressed  in  the  last  word  was  a  masterpiece. 

"What 's  that  to  do  with  it?"  enquired  the 
galled  Muriel. 

"Nothink  much,"  sarcastically,  "only  I  kept  a 


Char-Lady  Rises  to  the  Occasion     57 

boarding-'ouse  for  sich-like  for  years.  I  learnt 
their  wiys— that 's  all!  Never  in  o'  nights,  long 
o'  goin'  to  press — so  they  said.  Never  piyin'  rent 
regular  cos  o'  heditors  turnin'  nasty  and  not  know- 
in'  their  business!  Never  doin'  anythink  like  a 
Christian.  Give  me  a  nigger  any  diy — heven  a 
converted  one!  Regular  Holy  Joes  journalists — 
I  don't  think!  Such  real  gents!  Ho  yus!  And  I 
had  one  lodger  what  behaved  decent — for  a  jour- 
nalist— but  what  does  'e  go  and  do?" 

"Nothing  of  any  interest  to  me,  or  bearing  on 
the  question " 

"I  asks  you  as  man  to  man  what  does  'e  go  and 
do?"  repeated  Mrs.  Hobbs  loudly.  "He  brings 
a  lidy  'ome  one  hevenin'.  'Me  wife,'  he  says 
smilin'.  I  had  me  doubts,  but  I  said  nothink.  A 
few  weeks  later  he  brings  another.  '  Me  wife, '  he 
says  smilin',  again.  I  was  for  outin'  them  then 
and  there,  but  me  husband  he  siys  he  's  seen  quick 
widowers  an'  marriers.  Then  no  more  'n  six 
months  liter  he  brings  another.  'Me  wife,  Mrs. 
Hobbs, '  says  he,  introdoocin'  us,  laffin.  I  showed 
him  my  marriage  lines.  'We  don't  take  Mor- 
mons,' says  I,  sarcastic,  and  houted  'em  then  and 
there,  though  it  was  good  money  lost.  Ho  yus! 
Since  then,  when  a  journalist  talks  of  his  wife,  I 
asks  to  see  'er  lines,  and  afore  I  obliges  you,  per- 
haps you  '11  oblige  me  by  showin'  'em!  Ho  yus! 
I  don't  think." 

"  How  dare  you ! "  choked  Muriel.  "You  wicked, 
abandoned  woman!  As  if " 


58  Vagabond  City 

"I  've  me  character  to  consider  same  as  any 
duchess,  "returned Mrs.  Hobbs fiercely, "  and  much 
journalists  and  their  lidy  friends  care  about  that!1' 

"How  dare  you  call  me  a  'lady  friend'!'  al- 
most sobbed  Muriel,  overcome  by  this  last,  great 
indignity,  while  Michael  was  overcome  in  a  differ- 
ent way.  The  rigid  Muriel  so  maligned ! 

"You  want  to  be  called  'Mrs.  Talbot'!  Hp 
yus!  They  alwiys  did!" 

"You  were  lying  dead  drunk  in  the  ditch  with 
the  whisky!"  accused  the  goaded  Muriel. 

Mrs.  Hobbs  drew  herself  up  to  her  vast  height. 
Mick,  with  a  little  shiver,  wondered  when  she  was 
going  to  stop.  How  brave  women  were!  To 
think  of  Muriel  defying  such  a  dragon. 

"Hindeed!"  returned  the  dragon.  "And  who 
thought  they  saw  me  doin'  that?  You?" 

"No — my  husband. " 

"O  Lor!"  muttered  Mick,  making  himself  very 
small  indeed. 

"Are  you  referrin'  to  Mr.  Talbot?  Don't  you 
know  journalists  is  alwiys  seein'  things — specially 
things  as  never  'appened?  Ho  yus!  It 's  what 
they  're  pied  for — when  they  are  pied!" 

"Mr.  Talbot  did  see  you " 

"Then  tell  him  to  stop  skulkin'  on  the  stairs  an' 
come  down  an'  siy  it  to  my  fice!"  burst  out  the 
offended  lady,  in  truly  terrible  tones. 

Michael  came  down,  rather  an  abject  figure  at 
that  moment,  and  the  two  women  eyed  him  with 
deepest  scorn. 


Char-Lady  Rises  to  the  Occasion     59 

"An* '  'usband'  to  be  proud  of— I  don't  think!" 
remarked  Mrs.  Hobbs  sardonically. 

"You  did  see  her  drunk  in  the  ditch,  didn't 
you,  Mick?" 

"Yes,  that 's  what  I  'm  askin'  you?"  put  in  the 
accused,  her  fierce  right  eye  boring  into  the  re- 
cesses of  his  being. 

"Couldn't  think  of  it.  I  mean,  I  didn't!" 
muttered  the  wretched  coward,  plunging  for  the 
door. 

Mrs.  Hobbs,  still  focussing  him  with  her  fearful 
right  eye,  barred  his  exit.  "If  you  're  in  the  'abit 
of  seein'  things  like  that,  you  miy  as  well  hown  up 
to  it,  and  be  done  with  it, "  she  said  sternly. 

Mick  gazed  at  her  in  rueful  admiration. 

"I  deny  the  awful  impeachment,"  he  said,  at 
length. 

"Never  mind  my  feelin's.  Tell  a  Tidy  to  her 
fice  she  was  drunk  if  you  feels  like  it.  Your  lidy 
here  says  you  missed  the  whisky  an'  found  it  along 
o'  me  in  a  ditch ' ' 

"Only  the  empty  bottle"  said  Mick  apologeti- 
cally. "Please  overlook  it  for  once!" 

"That  I  put  the  paraffin  in  the  bread  pan?"  she 
thundered  at  him. 

Mick  crawled  abjectly. 

"Oh,  7  did  that,"  he  owned,  "and  of  course  it 
was  I  that  drank  the  whisky.  My  wife  must  have 
misunderstood  me  completely.  And  I  do  hope 
you  '11  forgive  us  and  stay  and  oblige. "  And  his 
powerful  arms  removed  Mrs.  Hobbs  from  the  door. 


60  Vagabond  City 

"Oh,  Mick!"  wailed  the  indignant,  betrayed 
Muriel. 

"Fancy  keepin'  'ouse  along  of  a  feller  like  that ! " 
sniffed  the  mistress  of  the  situation.  "You  do 
seem  to  'ave  brought  your  pigs  to  a  queer  markit ! 
An'  I  '11  siy  this  for  you,  you  look  respectable 
enough,  but  so  did  others  I  could  nime " 

"Will  you  go,  woman?  You  are  discharged!" 
Muriel  stamped  her  foot. 

"I  brought  my  'lines'  along,  and  I  '11  show  'em 
against  yours  any  diy.  Ho  yus!"  returned  Mrs. 
Hobbs,  flourishing  a  document  as  she  spoke.  She 
had  indeed  brought  her  "lines":  not  so  much  as  a 
sign  that  she  was  respectable,  but  with  the  idea — 
perhaps  hope — the  other  woman  might  be  other- 
wise and  consequently  completely  crushed  by  the 
sight. 

"Take  them  away — they  are  nothing  to  me — " 

"I  don't  expect  they  are.  Would  n't  know  the 
looks  of  'em,  I  dare  say.  Journalists  never  do  marry 
their  own  wives.  There  's  only  one  set  of  folks 
what 's  worse,  and  them  's  artists  as  I  took  it  too, 
with  folks  goin'  about  in  broad  diylight  without 
their  clothes,  to  be  painted  and  no  relation.  So 
I  wish  you  good-morning."  And  the  char-lady,  the 
honours  of  war  thick  upon  her,  turned  grandly  to 
go.  She  was  the  only  "treasure"  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood, and  right  well  did  she  know  her  own 
value. 

"Oh,    Muriel!"    floated    an    imploring   voice 
•from  outside  the  window. 


Char-Lady  Rises  to  the  Occasion    61 

Muriel  gulped,  thought  of  their  three  days'  dis- 
comfort and  the  reputed  powers  of  Mrs.  Hobbs, 
and  lowered  the  flag  of  her  pride. 

"Of  course  people  in  my  position  don't  carry 
their  marriage  certificates  about  with  them, "  she 
said  loftily,  "but  since  you  are  so  curious, 
there's  an  account  of  my  marriage."  And  she 
handed  a  marked  paragraph  in  the  local  paper  of 
her  father's  parish  to  the  virtuous  char-lady. 

Mrs.  Hobbs  took  it  languidly,  and  began  reading 
it  slowly. 

"Clergyman's  dartar,"  she  said,  at  length. 
"I  've  worked  in  many  a  clergy's  'ouse.  He's 
struck  it  lucky,  I  don't  think!  Maybe  he  has  his 
excuses,  though  a  journalist.  Ho  yus!  Pore 
devil !  Well,  he  '11  'ave  to  seem  to  be  respectable 
for  a  bit,  whether  he  likes  it  or  not!" 

"You  need  not  pity  me  because  I  have  married 
an  author,"  remarked  Muriel,  holding  her  head 
very  erect.  That  she  must  endure  this  woman's 
insolence ! 

1 '  Pity !  Ho  yus !  I  pities  you  both !  I  suppose 
chances  was  far  and  few  between  down  your  part, 
an '  lidies  has  to  clinch  on  to  what  they  can  get,  and 
no  choice  or  taste,  or  be  left  on  the  shelf!  I  've 
knowed  nice  lookin'  gals  what  could  n't  get  a  real 
man  for  a  'usband  an '  had  to  put  up  with  a  curick 
an'  pretend  they  liked  it — an'  though  a  bit  wild 
lookin',  Mr.  Talbot  is  a  fine  figger  of  a  man.  I  '11 
say  that  for  'im !  And  there  ain't  no  mischief  to 
be  got  into  'ere  and  no  week-end  Paris  trips  such 


62  Vagabond  City 

as  my  lodgers  was  always  agoin'  on.  ...  Would 
you  mind  movin'  Mrs.  Talbot,  m'am?  I  'mgoin' 
to  put  the  place  to  rights — it 's  more  like  a  pig-sty 
than  anythink — and  get  your  dinner  ready.  That 
is  a  fine  looking  gent  on  the  table  there!  Not 
your  father,  surely?  In  grand  clothes,  too. 
Would  he  be  a  friend  of  the  family,  now?" 

"That  is  my  uncle, "  said  Muriel,  "the  Mayor  of 
Little-Hole.  He  's  been  Mayor  three  times,  and 
that  scarf-pin  (it  was  very  cleverly  given  the  next 
place  of  honour  to  Mr.  Higgins  himself)  was  pre- 
sented to  him  by  a  royal  duke." 

Mrs.  Hobbs  was  impressed  at  last. 

"A  real  live  lord  mayor  in  the  family!"  she  ex- 
claimed, awed.  "I  might  have  seen  you  was  'igh- 
born.  I  'm  sure  all  this  is  a  sad  come-down  to  you. 
Is  he  a  lord  or  a  sir?  He  's  as  fine  as  any  dock!  " 

"No,"  owned  Muriel  reluctantly. 

"Well,  that 's  to  come — anyone  can  see  it  with 
'alf  an  heye.  Ho  yus!" 

She  tidied  up  for  a  very  short  space  of  time,  and 
gave  them  a  meal  fit  for  a  prince ;  in  fact  Mick  had 
eaten  a  far  less  luxurious  and  well-cooked  one  in 
the  company  of  a  prince,  more  than  once.  Muriel, 
she  treated  with  friendly  respect,  and  to  Mick, 
though  scornful,  she  was  not  outwardly  rude. 
Such  was  the  treasure  they  had  secured. 


CHAPTER  V 

MICK  IS  OVERTAKEN  BY  CONSCIENCE  AND  A  PET  PIG 

'"THE  rain  had  ceased  at  length,  and  the  bride- 
1  groom  waited  patiently  while  Muriel  tried 
on  three  trousseau  hats  and  finally  appeared  in  a 
fourth,  attired  as  if  for  a  fashionable  promenade. 
And  they  were  to  all  intents  and  purposes  alone 
upon  a  wide  stretch  of  moors:  at  the  most  they 
would  meet  a  working-man,  but  it  was  much  more 
probable  that  forest  ponies  alone  would  receive 
the  benefit  of  Muriel's  bridal  glory! 

The  incongruity  jarred  Michael,  but  he  only 
said, ' '  How  smart  you  are — and  all  for  me ! ' '  And 
gave  her  arm  a  little  squeeze. 

She  deigned  to  smile  in  answer  and  they  set  out 
for  their  walk,  an  incongruous  couple  enough! 
He,  with  the  salt  taste  of  the  seven  seas  upon  his 
lips,  the  mad  desire  of  them  rioting  in  his  blood ; 
she,  whose  horizon  was  bounded  by  a  showy  sub- 
urban villa. 

"  If  we  go  up  Bramble  Hill  we  can  get  a  superb 
view  and  see  the  forest  for  miles, "  said  Mick,  "but 
it  '11  be  fearfully  muddy.  The  road  to  God's  Hill 
is  level  and  dry." 

63 


64  Vagabond  City 

"  Oh,  God's  Hill — what  an  odd  name!"  returned 
Muriel,  and  they  set  off  across  the  moor  high  way  t 
both  rather  silent. 

Mick's  conscience  was  reproaching  him.  After 
all,  he  was  responsible  for  this  woman  and  for  her 
happiness.  He  had  not  undertaken  the  thing 
willingly,  but  he  had  undertaken  it:  it  was  irre- 
vocable. Whose  fault  was  it  that  though  she  had 
believed  herself  in  love  with  him  on  their  wedding- 
day,  she  had  had  no  such  illusion  a  week  later? 
Not  all  hers  surely.  If  she  tried  him  much,  it  was 
possible  he  tried  her  even  more.  There  was  her 
view  to  be  taken  into  consideration,  as  well  as  his 
own — and  he  had  only  looked  out  of  the  one  win- 
dow. She  had  never  wronged  him  in  her  thoughts, 
but  daily  in  his  own  heart  was  he  faithless  to  her. 
If  there  had  only  been  something!  But  mentally, 
morally,  physically,  she  left  him  cold.  He  could 
not  even  admire  her  good  looks,  they  were  not 
his  "style."  "Blank  beauty,"  he  rather  cruelly, 
if  truthfully,  called  them.  Just  the  outward  hand 
of  nature,  nothing  that  came  from  within,  no  char- 
acter, no  expression,  and  eyes  as  cloudless  as  shal- 
low! Ten  years  had  not  marred  her  beauty,  had 
taken  nothing  away,  but  neither  had  it  given  her 
anything.  She  had  gained  nothing.  When  youth 
and  beauty  should  go  at  last,  time  would  write  no 
attractions  there,  that  most  terrible  thing  of  all 
would  be  left — blank  age — a  husk  that  had  never 
held  a  kernel. 

To  do  Mick  justice,  he  did  want  to  get  to  care 


Conscience — and  a  Pet  Pig !        65 

for  his  wife  for  both  their  sakes,  to  drive  away  some 
one  who  had  no  right  to  stand  between  them.  But 
because  it  was  his  duty,  and  never  his  pleasure,  he 
could  not  do  this  thing;  not  yet  at  least.  The 
best  he  could  do  at  the  time  was  to  compliment  her 
on  the  unsuitable  costume. 

She  brightened  quickly  at  that,  then  her  face  fell. 
"But  my  trousseau  will  be  wasted  and  old-fash- 
ioned by  the  time  we  get  back  to  civilisation," 
she  complained. 

"Can't  one  buy  another?"  he  asked  vaguely. 
"When  the  money-making  book  is  out,  I  mean?" 

' '  Will  it  make  money  ?  So  many — most — don '  t ! 
Shall  we  ever  be  able  to  live  in  a  nice,  gay  suburb 
and  have  lots  of  nice  society?" 

"Let 's  hope  so,"  he  answered,  thinking  with 
horror  of  "the  gay  suburb  and  nice  society." 
"But,  of  course,  that  depends  upon  whether  it 's  a 
success." 

"  It  must  be  a  success, "  she  cried  feverishly.  "  I 
could  not  bear  it  if  it  failed — and  then  failure  is 
always  ridiculous." 

He  winced  for  a  moment,  for,  after  all,  he  had 
been  a  failure.  He  might  have  been  established  as 
a  risen  journalist,  with  a  good  balance  at  the  bank, 
but  he  had  chosen  those  ten  pagan  years  instead, 
and  he  was  still,  at  thirty-one,  in  the  making. 
And  there  was  his  school-fellow,  Pat  O'Hara,  a 
man  with  no  more  of  his  talents,  and  half  his 
chances,  made. 

"I've  known  successes  more  ridiculous,"  he 


66  Vagabond  City 

said  at  length  a  little  bitterly,  "and  once  I  knew  a 
failure  that  was  .  .  .  magnificent.  But  you  could 
not  be  expected  to  understand  that,  could  you, 
Muriel?" 

"I  only  understand  common-sense, "  said  Muriel 
crossly.  "Success  can  be  magnificent,  failure 
never!" 

"  Don't  you  think  it  depends  a  little  on  the  aim? 
The  chap  I  mean  aimed  at  a  little  thing,  a  certain 
cheap  notoriety,  and  got  it.  But  the  failure  .  .  . 
well  he  was  a  bigger  man  altogether,  he  despised 
facile  success,  would  have  nothing  but  the  greatest, 
and  since  the  greatest  never  came  to  him,  he  was 
content  to  be  counted  among  men  as  a  failure.  So 
— you  are  not  cut  out  for  the  wife  of  a  failure. 
Well,  we  must  see  what  we  can  do  to  be  what  you 
would  call  a  success." 

"I  believe  you  can  if  you  try  You  must  have 
talent  even  to  write  these  dull  nature  things  and 
silly  vagabond  articles;  and  they  seem  to  pay  for 
them  awfully  well!  If  you  would  only  go  in  for 
paying  novels.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  would  be  so  patient, 
so  proud  of  you!" 

He  stood  silent,  trying  to  turn  his  back  upon  the 
lost  freedom. 

"God  knows  it's  little  enough  I've  brought 
you!"  he  said,  at  length;  and  did  not  altogether 
allude  to  his  banking  account,  though  Muriel 
took  him  literally. 

"I  'm  so  glad  to  have  awakened  ambition  in 
you!"  she  cried. 


Conscience — and  a  Pet  Pig          67 

He  said  nothing,  for  he  knew  she  had  not  wak- 
ened it,  but  killed  it ;  made  it  even  a  little  ridicu- 
lous. Her  insensitive  common-sense  was  so  like 
a  douche  of  cold  water. 

"  Only  stupid  people  fail, "  she  declared.  "  How 
I  hate  stupidity !" 

Again  he  said  nothing.  He  had  never  known 
anyone  quite  so  stupid  as  his  wife:  had  not  even 
realised  there  were  such  women,  till  he  married 
one,  when  he  began  to  wonder  if  they  were  even 
rare.  Yet  the  grain  of  worldly  shrewdness  which 
he  lacked,  was  deeply  rooted  in  her.  For  all  her 
stupidity  she  was  of  the  women  who  nagged  their 
husbands  into  success — or  suicide.  She  would  be 
a  social  success,  too,  in  a  dull  decorous  set;  for  she 
would  never  know  that  it  was  dull. 

"How  lovely  it  must  be  when  there  's  a  private 
income!"  she  sighed  longingly.  "But  we  have 
not  even  a  hundred  pounds  in  the  bank. " 

When  Muriel  talked  like  this,  and  her  conversa- 
tion was  apt  to  run  in  the  same  lines,  he  became 
possessed  by  something  akin  to  terror  lest  she 
should  ever  learn  how  much  money  he  had  made — 
and  spent.  For  he  had  made  money.  That  was 
the  curious,  incongruous  gift  that  clung  to  the 
man  Patrick  O'Hara  laughingly  called  "The  Mad 
Celt ' ' :  despite  himself  he  had  to  make  money.  He 
did  not  want  it ;  he  never  sought  it.  It  just  came 
— and  went.  He  fled  from  opportunity — and 
opportunity  followed.  He  had  an  extraordinary 
fascination  for  his  fellow-men :  it  was  their  pleasure 


68  Vagabond  City 

and  privilege  to  do  him  a  good  turn.  To  him  they 
stuck  closer  than  a  brother:  wherever  he  went,  in 
high  places  and  in  low,  the  warm  hand  of  liking 
and  fellowship  grasped  his.  "If  it  is  n't  the  good 
old  bird  of  passage ! "  they  would  say,  delighted,  and 
a  dozen  invitations  would  shower  upon  the  man  who 
had  need  of  none.  The  love  of  many  men,  and 
many  women,  went  with  him  throughout  his  days. 

Many  of  his  friends  had  achieved  richness,  had 
sought  to  point  out  the  easy  road,  but  Mick  always 
shook  his  head.  "None  of  your  yellow  fever  for 
me!"  he  would  say.  "A  heavy  heart  and  heavy 
flesh  seem  to  go  with  full  pockets.  The  gold- 
mania  is  worse  than  seven  devils ;  it  rends  you  limb 
from  limb." 

Yet  he  cherished  a  demon  greater  than  all  the 
seven  devils  put  together,  a  demon  that  would 
tear  the  soul  out  of  him,  as  O'Hara  had  foretold, 
and  people  believed  O'Hara  knew.  He  had  en- 
tered Fleet  Street  with  less  than  his  friend's  talents 
and  infinitely  fewer  opportunities,  and  was  one 
of  the  first  men  of  his  day. 

Mick  would  never  be  that:  he  could  never  be 
anything — save  himself.  O'Hara  had  a  care  for 
the  morrow,  Mick  for  the  hour.  He  turned  from 
those  who  would  rend  from  him  the  joy  of  the  day 
to  tie  upon  him  the  burden  of  a  day  that  might 
never  dawn. 

"You  're  usurers,  gamblers,  all  of  you,"  he  de- 
clared. "It's  no  good,  you  beggars,  you  don't 
catch  me  dealing  in  '  futures. ' ' 


Conscience — and  a  Pet  Pig !        69 

But  now  he  was  married  he  would  be  compelled 
to  take  up  the  hated  burden.  If  only  she  never 
guessed  how  much  he  had  wasted — rather  worse 
than  wasted !  He  frowned  at  unpleasing  memo- 
ries. What  a  curse  a  perfect  memory  was! 

It  was  not  so  much  that  he  did  not  care  for 
money  as  that  he  cared  infinitely  more  for  other 
things.  O'Hara  put  it  in  his  own  way  when  he 
said,  "Put  a  thousand  pounds  in  one  hand  and  a 
sunset  flamin'  over  a  new  land  in  another,  and  ask 
Mick  to  choose — and  he  'd  take  the  sunset  ivery 
time !  He  's  the  boy  for  visions  and  shadows,  and 
the  dear  knows  where  they  '11  land  him,  and  what  '11 
the  end  of  him  be — an'  the  big  gift  of  the  man 
rottin'  an'  rottin'." 

Yes,  a  wise  man  would  have  bound  the  burden 
to  his  back,  had  something  to  show  now:  there 
would  have  been  the  income  Muriel  coveted  so 
much. 

"All  of  ten  thousand  pounds,  one  way  and 
another!"  he  muttered,  aghast — "though  the  dear 
knows  where  it  came  from,  or  where  it  went !  And 
God  forbid  she  ever  should!" 

He  gave  vent  to  an  expressive  whistle.  He  de- 
fended his  own  folly.  He  had  gone  to  see  the 
world,  to  learn,  not  to  make  money,  and  he  had 
seen  the  world,  and  he  had  learnt.  Of  course  he 
had  written  his  hasty  articles  because  he  could  not 
always  help  writing,  but  he  had  never  expected 
them  to  catch  on  as  they  did,  or  make  such  big 
sums  of  money;  then  his  friends,  confound  them! 


;o  Vagabond  City 

would  thrust  him  into  mining  speculations,  and  the 
wretched  things  always  turned  out  as  these  million- 
aire acquaintances  said  they  would.  He  had  cer- 
tainly made  some  thousands  altogether  during  his 
stay  in  Africa,  but  he  'd  managed  to  get  rid  of  them 
before  he  set  forth  for  another  long  journey.  He 
had  fitted  up  more  than  one  big-game  shooting 
expedition  and  it  had  n't  been  done  for  nothing — 
or  diamonds  picked  up  for  a  song  either,  even  in 
Africa.  He  had  never  been  so  poor  as  after  his 
successes  among  the  mine  magnates,  but  in  New 
York  a  man  he  knew  had  got  him  on  to  a  certain 
paper,  and  they  gave  him  twenty  pounds  a  week  in 
exchange  for  the  new  blood  he  put  into  the  anaemic 
thing.  At  the  end  of  a  few  weeks  he  departed, 
without  the  formality  of  notice,  for  the  Rockies, 
and  had  a  glorious  time.  He  had  chummed  up 
with  a  fellow-sportsman  who  turned  out  to  be  no 
end  of  a  good  sort — if  a  royal  prince  incognito! 
He  had  never  had  a  better  time  in  his  life,  but  the 
money  had  not  lasted  very  long.  He  had  returned 
unashamed  to  New  York,  and  the  editor  had 
damned  his  soul  with  fearful  invective,  and  offered 
him  thirty  pounds  per  week  to  stop  a  bit.  He  had 
stopped,  done  wonders  with  the  paper,  and  been 
pretty  well  top-dog.  Then  the  proud  proprietor  of 
an  enormous  newspaper  syndicate  had  offered  him 
two  thousand  pounds  a  year  as  editor  of  the  chief 
paper.  To  the  amazement  of  all  who  knew  him,  the 
brilliant  young  journalist  actually  stayed  in  this  post 
for  six  months,  and  earned  his  money  too.  Then, 


Conscience — and  a  Pet  Pig  !        71 

just  as  the  proprietor,  who  was  delighted  with  the 
young  man,  and  was  his  friend  as  well  as  his  em- 
ployer, was  congratulating  himself  on  the  cure  of 
the  wanderer,  Mick  heard,  one  spring  day  in  his 
office,  the  voice  that  he  knew,  and  never  turned  a 
deaf  ear  to.  He  packed  his  bag  then  and  there, 
and,  when  dawn  visited  the  sleeping  city,  passed 
gaily  through  it,  his  feet  dancing  to  the  old 
magic. 

Then  other  lands,  other  opportunities,  other 
vagrant  articles,  a  name  always  in  the  making, 
never  made;  one  step  forward,  three  backwards. 
Angry  editors,  grieved  friends,  frustrated  oppor- 
tunities ! 

Ten  thousand  pounds!  He  shuddered.  How 
awful!  If  Muriel  had  that,  all  safely  invested, 
how  happy  she  would  be!  A  staring  red-brick 
villa  with  prim  curtains  and  trim-kept  paths 
loomed  before  him.  What  an  escape!  His 
body  would  be  there,  his  soul  on  the  highway  of 
wild  seas  and  wilder  lands. 

Ten  thousand  pounds!  He  had  forgotten  that 
it  could  mount  up  to  so  much.  What  had  become 
of  it  all? 

Much  had  gone  on  women,  the  half  careless, 
half  contemptuous,  fancy  of  the  moment,  but  more 
had  gone  on  sport,  and  perhaps  most  of  all  in  ex- 
ploration expeditions.  Always  the  going  on,  the 
new  city,  or  the  untrodden  way,  to  visit.  He  had 
travelled  en  prince  with  a  prince  of  the  blood,  and 
he  had  travelled  as  a  beggar  with  outcasts,  and 


72  Vagabond  City 

it  had  not  mattered  much  either  way.  The  only 
thing  that  mattered  was  to  get  farther,  and  yet 
farther. 

Now,  the  only  thing  that  mattered  was  to  make 
money  for  the  woman  beside  him  to  buy  a  prison 
for  them  both :  a  red-brick  prison,  shut  away  from 
the  sea  and  the  wind  and  the  call  of  the  unknown. 
He  must  mould  himself  upon  the  glorious  example 
of  obese  Mr.  Higgins. 

He  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  long  and 
loudly  at  the  absurdity  of  the  idea,  and  Muriel 
stared  at  him  annoyed. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?"  she  demanded. 

"I'm  afraid  I " 

He  got  no  further,  for  piercing  shrieks  were  borne 
to  them  from  the  cottage  next  to  John's,  which 
they  were  just  passing. 

"Oh!"  cried  Muriel,  turning  white.  "Oh, 
they  are  killing  pigs!  Go  and  tell  them  not 
to!" 

Before  Michael  could  answer,  the  unwilling 
party  to  the  affair,  a  small  active  animal,  came 
tearing  towards  them,  hotly  pursued  by  a  butcher, 
whose  cart  was  tied  to  the  gate  of  the  cottage,  and 
the  interested  John. 

"Tell  them  they  mustn't!"  repeated  Muriel, 
horror  in  her  eyes. 

"Oh  .  .  .  .all  right,"  said  Mick,  feeling  very 
foolish. 

"Hi!"  shouted  the  butcher,  "  stop  'im,  can't 
you?" 


Conscience — and  a  Pet  Pig  !        73 

Rather  cleverly  Mick  caught  the  hairy,  squealing 
pig  and  held  him  till  the  two  men  came  up.  "  How 
much?"  he  asked. 

The  butcher,  who  had  just  bought  the  animal 
cheap  for  several  reasons,  stared.  What  was  it  to 
this  gentleman? 

"I  happen  to  want  a  pig,"  announced  Mick 
firmly,  "and  rather  fancy  the — er — build  of  this 
brute.  What 's  the  price?" 

"Five  pounds,"  returned  the  butcher  promptly, 
by  no  means  averse  to  profiting  from  the  folly  of  a 
fool. 

"They  came  cheaper  in — Chicago,"  returned 
Mick,  drily. 

"Pigs  run  heavy  here,"  retorted  the  butcher, 
looking  obstinate. 

"Oh,  very  well.  Can  you  call  for  the  money? 
We  're  at  Rose  Cottage?" 

The  butcher  touched  his  hat. 

"I  '11  call  round  that  way.  It 's  me  you  buy 
your  meat  from,  though  the  boy  usually  takes  the 
cart.  You  '11  be  all  right  with  the  pig  till  you  come 
to  the  killin*  of  'im.  Then  you  '11  'ave  to  look 
mighty  nippy !  You  see  when  'e  were  a  day  old  'e 
was  taken  into  the  'ouse  by  the  childer  and  trained 
as  a  pet,  and  'e  don't  take  kindly  to  bein'  bacon,  so 
to  speak.  Got  a  bit  beyond  'imself  an'  that 's  the 
f  ac' .  Had  a  blue  ribbon  an'  a  bell  and  slept  on  the 
'earthing  and  did  n't  think  nothink  good  'nough 
for  'im  till  they  got  fair  sick  of  it  and  sent  for  me. 
.  .  .  Good-day  to  you  both !" 


74  Vagabond  City 

The  couple,  left  alone  with  their  remarkable  pet, 
eyed  one  another  foolishly. 

"  She  seems  to  understand, "  said  Muriel,  patting 
the  purchase, ' '  and  I  believe  she  's  grateful.  Look, 
she  's  following  us  just  like  a  dog!" 

"Of  course,"  said  Mick  apologetically,  "it's 
not  actually  an  extravagance.  He  '11  eat  the  waste, 
won't  he,  and  be  an  economy? — like  they  are  in 
Ireland.  Still,  it 's  awkward  not  having  a  sty. 
Uncle  William  never  thought  of  that,  it  seems." 

"She  can  live  in  the  back  kitchen." 

"But  will  she  stay  in  the  back  kitchen?"  he 
wondered. 

She  would  n't !  The  brute  squealed  in  a  heart- 
rending fashion  till  they  let  it  into  the  living-room, 
but,  to  do  it  justice,  once  it  obtained  its  own  way  it 
was  quiet  enough.  It  squatted  drowsily  by  the 
fire  as  one  who  has  obtained  no  more  than  one's  just 
rights.  When  meal-time  came  it  moved  close  to 
the  table  and  waited  expectantly.  The  scraps 
that  fell  to  its  share  seemed  but  to  serve  as  an  ap- 
petiser. The  newcomer  had  no  idea  of  being  an 
economy  if  it  could  help  it. 

"We  '11  have  to  buy  meal  and  rotten  potatoes," 
remarked  Michael,  eyeing  the  creature  without 
much  enthusiasm. 

"Oh  Mick,  not  rotten!  And  of  course  a  ribbon 
and  a  name — can't  you  think  of  something  nice 
for  her?" 

"Uncle  William — we  might  get  even  on  Uncle 
William." 


Conscience — and  a  Pet  Pig  !       75 

"Don't  be  silly !  I  mean  a  name  like  Maggie — 
only  suitable. " 

Mick  grinned.  "Why  not  Esmerelda-Who- 
Would  n't-Be-Bacon?" 

"Esmerelda?     Come  here,  Esmerelda!" 

And  Esmerelda  came  for  a  tasty  scrap,  so  that 
Muriel  knew  the  name  to  be  approved  in  the 
right  quarter. 

"After  all,  this  cottage  has  forest  rights,"  re- 
marked Michael.  "  We  can  turn  Esmerelda  out  to 
find  much  of  his — her — own  provender.  She'll  do 
herself  proud  in  the  pannage  months.  I  only  wish 
I  knew  what  Mrs.  Hobbs  is  going  to  say  about  it. " 

Mrs.  Hobbs' s  cooking  really  had  proved  the 
divine  thing. 

Muriel's  voice  sounded  a  little  flat  as  she  said, 
"Perhaps  we  can  hide  her — at  first." 

Mick  shook  his  head. 

"No  bushels  for  Esmerelda.  One  sees  it  in  her 
eye.  She  regards  the  full  blaze  of  publicity  as  her 
right." 

"I  shall  hide  her  for  to-day,  at  any  rate,"  in- 
sisted Muriel.  "Mrs.  Hobbs  was  horribly  cross 
this  morning." 

" Oh,  she  can't  often  find  the  whisky  now." 

Muriel  curled  herself  up  on  the  broad,  low  win- 
dow-seat, and  Esmerelda  heaved  herself  upon  its 
comfortable  cushions  and  laid  an  artful  snout  on 
her  mistress's  knee. 

"Isn't  she  a  darling,  Mick?" 

"Why  doesn't  that  woman  come  and  clear 


76  Vagabond  City 

away?  I  do  hate  food  left  on  the  table  when  one 
has  to  remain  in  the  room." 

"  If  she  does  n't  come  soon,  I  '11  do  it,"  answered 
Muriel  quickly.  "When  you  return  you  '11  find 
all  tidy." 

She  ran  up-stairs  for  her  sewing  as  she  spoke, 
and  though  she  was  only  gone  some  few  minutes, 
returned  to  find  the  table  had  been  cleared, — in 
one  sense  of  the  word, — though  not  by  Mrs.  Hobbs. 

"Oh  Esmerelda!  And  that  pie  was  to  do  for 
our  supper!" 

Esmerelda  grunted  disdainfully. 

"As  long  as  Mick  does  n't  know."  The  young 
wife  hurriedly  washed  up  and  put  the  things  away, 
and  her  husband  returned  a  moment  later.  It  had 
been  rather  a  near  thing. 

"Good  domestic  angel,"  he  said  approvingly. 
"The  pie  put  away  safely,  eh?" 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Muriel,  casting  a  reproachful 
glance  at  the  pet  pig. 

"Mrs.  Hobbs  is  a  champion  at  pies!  Enough 
for  supper?"  He  opened  the  cupboard  door  as  he 
spoke. 

"How  can  you  speak  of  one  meal  the  moment 
you  've  finished  another!" 

But  Mick  was  hunting  anxiously  for  signs  of 
his  beloved  pie. 

"The  devil/"  he  exclaimed,  "it's  gone!"  He 
stared  at  his  wife  and  then  his  eyes  fell  on  the  com- 
placent Esmerelda.  "You've  given  it  to  that 
brute!" 


Conscience — and  a  Pet  Pig  !        77 

"You  can't  keep  a  pig  and  starve  it." 

"  1 11  starve  it  sooner  than  feed  it  on  Mrs.  Hobbs's 
masterpieces,"  he  retorted  brutally.  "There'll 
be  pig-food  in  for  the  beast  to-morrow  and  if  it 
is  n't  good  enough  for  her  ...  we  '11  see  about 
bacon.  Is  Mrs.  Hobbs  coming  to  cook  some- 
thing else  to-night  or  did  she  calculate  on  the  pie 
lasting?" 

"I  think  she  calculated  on  the  pie,"  returned 
Muriel  apologetically. 

"I  thought  so!"  And  he  slammed  the  door 
after  him  as  he  departed  to  the  farm  to  buy  food 
for  Esmerelda. 

She  refused  it  at  first,  but  the  words  "bacon" 
and  "butcher"  brought  her  to  her  senses,  or  so 
Mick  affected  to  believe,  though  Muriel  said  it 
was  the  pangs  of  hunger. 

"After  all,  it 's  easier  to  manage  a  pig  than  a 
char-lady, "  said  Mick  as  the  beast  gobbled  its  food 
in  the  back  kitchen,  "and  if  we  '11  have  to  keep 
pies  away  it 's  not  so  trying  as  always  finding  a 
fresh  place  for  the  whisky.  The  ingenuity  of  the 
woman !  She  found  it  in  the  coal-box,  and  screwed 
the  lid  off  my  portmanteau,  but  she  has  n't  thought 
to  look  under  my  mattress.  I  counted  on  her 
making  the  beds  without  turning  'em.  But  what 
practice  she  must  have  had  to  be  so  skilful  at  the 
game!" 

"  Oh,  your  whisky  will  be  all  right,"  said  Muriel 
impatiently,  "only  you  do  fuss  so  about  it!" 

"Considering  I  cannot  get  my  special  brand  of 


78  Vagabond  City 

Irish  which  is  the  only  whisky  I  like,  nearer  than 
Totton,"  he  began  hotly,  "it  gives  me  something 
to  fuss  about!" 

It  was  late  when  Mrs.  Hobbs  arrived.  Esmer- 
elda  lay  without  protest  under  the  table,  hidden  by 
the  long  cloth.  She  always  seemed  to  understand 
what  was  expected  of  her;  it  was  never  lack  of 
understanding  with  Esmerelda 

Mrs.  Hobbs,  who  came  and  went  entirely  at  her 
own  convenience,  greeted  those  dependent  on  her 
ministrations  rather  coldly,  cast  a  glance  of  with- 
ering scorn  at  the  successful  whisky-hider,  and 
then  taking  up  a  duster  proceeded  to  go  into  all 
manner  of  odd  inconsequent  places. 

"Now  she's  dusting  the  bread,"  said  Mick, 
aghast,  glad  he  had  finally  decided  that  the  bread- 
bin  was  scarcely  secure,  "and  the  inside  of  my 
river-waders." 

The  river- waders  had  yielded  much  profit  before 
now,  but  this  time  the  industrious  charwoman  drew 
blank.  After  dusting  the  inside  of  the  grand- 
father clock,  Mrs.  Hobbs  snatched  Muriel's  hot- 
water  bottle  off  the  hob  with  a  look  of  contempt, 
and  proceeded  majestically  up-stairs. 

"I  do  think  it  's  selfish  of  you  to  have  a  hot- 
water  bottle,"  complained  Mick,  grinning.  "It 
adds  so  to  the  risk  of  discovery.  Suppose  she  for- 
gets and  puts  it  in  my  bed  and  finds  a  nubble  under 
the  mattress!  Suppose  her  conscience  pricks  her 
belatedly  and  she  turns  the  mattresses,  mine  in 
particular !  I  wish  I  had  the  courage  to  go  up  and 


Conscience — and  a  Pet  Pig  !        79 

sit  carelessly  on  my  bed.  But  she  takes  all  the 
spirit  out  of  me.  If  I  saw  her  take  it,  I  should  n't 
have  the  nerve  to  do  anything.  I  should  have  to 
pretend  not  to  notice!  Oh  .  .  .  bother!" 

"You  make  'bother'  sound  so  wicked,"  com- 
plained Muriel.  "And  here  's  Esmerelda  coming 
out!  Do  push  her  back!" 

Esmerelda  was  pushed — rather  roughly — into 
seclusion,  and  then  Mick  slunk  shamefacedly 
up-stairs. 

He  found  Mrs.  Hobbs  looking  thoughtful,  and 
tenderly  smoothing  his  pillows  with  a  somewhat 
grimy  duster,  and  he  longed  to  have  the  power  to 
see  with  magic  eyes  into  the  depths  of  her  deep 
pockets.  He  subsided  on  to  his  bed,  but  no  nubble 
comforted  him. 

"  Have  you  turned  the  mattress?"  rose  panic- 
stricken  to  his  lips,  but  he  met  that  cold  stern  eye 
and  his  courage  failed.  He  hung  his  head,  the 
picture  of  a  culprit  detected  in  the  act,  and  changed 
it  instead  to  "Have  you  .  .  .  seen  my  shaving 
brushes?" 

Mrs.  Hobbs,  appallingly  respectable,  looked  him 
up  and  down  with  grim  disapproval.     "You'll 
find  them  in  your  dressing-room,  Mr.  Talbot  .  .  . 
when  you  'ave  a  use  for  them.     Ho  yus ! " 

"Thank  you,"  he  said  abjectly. 

"Good-night,"  said  Mrs.  Hobbs  haughtily,  as 
with  a  curt  bow  she  left  the  room..  "Shiving 
brushes  at  this  time  o'  night!" 

Mick  heard  the  outer  door  slam  after  her  as  he 


8o  Vagabond  City 

sought  feverishly  for  his  treasure  trove.  Muriel 
came  running  up  at  the  sound  of  violent  profanity. 

"She  's  turned  it!"  he  said  dramatically. 

"Well,  it  can't  be  helped  now,"  said  his  wife, 
taking  his  misfortune  with  admirable  fortitude. 
"Come  and  share  my  tea." 

He  refused,  however,  to  share  her  tea,  and 
glowered  on  the  window-seat  instead.  As  he  sat 
nursing  his  grievance,  he  quite  forgot  his  life  was 
blighted  because  of  Muriel  whom  he  had  married, 
and  the  Elf  whom  he  could  not.  He  only  remem- 
bered Mrs.  Hobbs  had  turned  the  mattress. 

"The  b d  officious  old  cow!"  burst  from  him. 

"Mick!"  His  wife  sprang  indignantly  to  her 
feet.  "How  can  you  use  such  vile,  disgusting 
language!" 

"It 's  nothing  to  what  I  could  use!" 

"  I  shall  go  to  bed,  and  it 's  absurd  to  make  such 
a  fuss  about  a  little  whisky!" 

"The  bottle  was  practically  full!" 

Muriel  was  too  busy  trying  to  make  Esmerelda 
understand  she  was  not  to  follow  her  up-stairs  to 
notice  what  her  husband  was  saying.  The  dis- 
consolate man  and  pig  were  left  together,  and 
sulked  in  company. 

Mick  lay  awake  trying  to  think  of  fresh  hiding 
places  and  was  just  dozing  off  to  sleep  when  lump- 
ing noises  came  up  the  stairs,  and  Esmerelda 
settled  herself  with  a  low  contented  grunt  against 
the  door. 

Muriel  woke  with  a  start  and  sat  up  excitedly. 


Conscience — and  a  Pet  Pig  !        81 

"Oh  Mick,  I  told  you  she  wasn't  an  ordinary 
pig  at  all!" 

"Bother  the  beast !  The  worst  of  it  is  she  '11  be 
pretty  tight  to-morrow  and  not  come  near  us " 

"Esmerelda  never — 

"I  was  talking  about  Mrs.  Hobbs,"  he  shouted 
indignantly  across  the  room  at  her.  "Really, 
Muriel,  you  seem  to  have  but  one  idea  in 
your  head — and  that,  that  infernal  self-seeking 
swine " 

"As  far  as  that  goes,  your  sole  idea  is  Mrs.  Hobbs 
and  the  whisky,"  returned  the  goaded  Muriel, 
"and  I  daresay  she  '11  take  most  of  it  in  bed  to- 
night and  be  all  right  by  supper- time  to-morrow. " 

Mrs.  Hobbs  appeared  about  six  o'clock  on  the 
following  evening,  very  rigid,  her  head  very  high, 
and  her  wandering  eye  somewhat  bloodshot  and 
uncertain  in  its  career;  the  other  eye,  however, 
was  more  than  usually  grim  and  respectable.  It 
quelled  Mick  at  once.  He  had  meant  to  speak 
about  his  loss. 

Esmerelda  was  disposed  of  under  the  table 
and  forbidden  to  appear  at  the  cost  of  hideous 
penalties. 

Mrs.  Hobbs  unfroze  after  a  while :  she  even  smiled 
at  Mick.  "I  've  thought  of  roast  duck  an'  apple 
tart  with  cloves  for  to-night,"  she  announced. 

He  eyed  her  gratefully. 

"I  dislike  cloves,"  said  Muriel. 

"Married  women  have  to  be  in  subjection," 
returned  Mrs.  Hobbs,  with  the  pious  resignation 

6 


82  Vagabond  City 

of  a  widow  that  had  never  been  anything  of  the 
sort.  "Hoyus!" 

"Listen  to  pearls  of  wisdom,  Muriel,"  cried 
Mick  gaily,  "and  remember  you  Ve  left  it  to  me, 
partner,  and  I  've  made  it  cloves!" 

He  eyed  the  skilful  whisky-finder  in  friendliest 
fashion.  There  was  a  fresh  bottle  in  the  sleeve  of 
Muriel's  new  blouse  (of  which  even  Muriel  knew 
nothing),  and  he  had  bought  a  flask  which  he  in- 
tended to  keep  filled  in  his  pocket,  so  that  the  ut- 
most ginning  of  Mrs.  Hobbs  could  not  leave  him 
comfortless. 

"Strange  'ow  'usbands  and  wives  is  alwiys  hop- 
posites, "  remarked  Mrs.  Hobbs  conversationally. 
"Now  me  and  my  'usband  were  that  hopposite 
you  never  did!  Ho  yus!  He  were  hopposite 
somethink  cruel!  A  little  feller  with  bow  legs,  me 
own  bein'  stright  as  any  dock's,  and  not  what 
you  'd  name  for  powerful  though  convenient  for  'is 
profession  which  was  chimbleys.  'E  'ad  n't  no 
looks,  nor  no  brains,  nor  no  intellec' — 'e  did  n't 
even  know  one  toon  from  another,  and  tikin'  me 
and  a  lidy  friend  out  one  diy  'e  disgriced  the  two 
of  us  somethink  awful  by  standin'  up  an'  tikin' 
off  his  'at  to  'I  'm  afrid  to  go  'ome  in  the  dark' 
instead  of  'God  Sive  the  King.'  Not  that  'e  were 
afrid  to  come  'ome  in  the  dark  neither — 'e  pre- 
ferred it,  made  it  'is  'abit  for  twenty  years.  I 
tried  to  get  'im  sived  more'n  once  but  he  never 
would  come — 'e  were  hopposite  about  religion  too, 
'avin*  none  to  tike  'old  of.  'E  were  n't  much  to 


Conscience — and  a  Pet  Pig  !        83 

look  at  in  life,  but  'e  did  me  proud  as  a  corpse: 
everybody  owned  that  as  a  body  'e  were  a  fair 
treat.  It 's  coorious  to  think  I  never  knew  'is 
'air  was  grey  till  'e  were  laid  hout.  'E  mide  a 
perfectly  norrible  hend, "  she  added,  with  gusto, 
"somethink  awful!  I  expect  he's  wishin'  now 
'e  'd  'ave  come  alonger  me  to  'ave  been  converted. 
Hoyus!  'E " 

"We  have  had  our  own  work  to  do  all  day," 
interrupted  Muriel  coldly,  breaking  in  on  reminis- 
cences that  did  not  interest,  merely  disgusted, 
her. 

"I  was  writin'  to  my  nephy  in  America,"  ex- 
plained Mrs.  Hobbs,  "him  what  married  promiscu- 
ous a  young  'ooman  with  a  cork  leg  thinkin'  it 
were  naught  but  chilblains  which  she  persuaded 
of  'im,  but — Lor'  Amighty  .  .  .!"  Her  voice 
faltered,  died  away,  for  her  horrified  eyes  had  be- 
held a  pig  come  from  under  the  table.  Even 
though  she  knew  it  could  not  be  really  there,  it 
was  the  most  realistic  pig  she  had  ever  seen.  She 
had  once  had  what  she  called  a  touch  of  "  influenzy," 
and  what  the  tactless  doctor  called  more  than  a 
touch  of  something  else,  warning  her  what  she 
might  expect,  if  she  did  not  mend  the  error  of  her 
ways.  She  mended  them  by  getting  "converted" 
at  intervals,  and  sporting  a  blue  ribbon,  at  which 
times  her  work  and  cooking  went  utterly  to  pieces. 
She  was  a  valiant  soul,  however,  and  not  easily  to 
be  defeated,  and  to  show  that  the  doctor  was 
entirely  wrong  and  no  gentleman,  she  proceeded 


84  Vagabond  City 

to  walk  through  Esmerelda  and  prove  her  an 
illusion. 

But  Esmerelda  unfortunately  had  ideas  on  the 
subject  which  were  quite  otherwise,  being  materi- 
alistic rather  than  spiritualistic,  and  the  result 
was  utterly  disastrous. 

While  Mick  helped  up  the  panic-stricken  char- 
woman, Muriel  strove  to  soothe  the  outraged 
dignity  of  Esmerelda,  who  was  very  angry  indeed, 
and  did  not  care  who  knew  it. 

"'Oly  'Eaven!"  gasped  Mrs.  Hobbs  shrilly. 
"It  'safe  W" 

Mick  rather  shamefacedly  started  to  give  a 
garbled  version  of  Esmerelda's  presence  among 
them.  "And  the  fact  is — she  won't  go,"  he  con- 
cluded feebly.  "And  she  eats  all  the  refuse  and 
saves  part  of  the  washing  up.  We  thought  you  'd 
rather  we  had  one. " 

His  tones  were  rather  agonised ;  he  had  a  vanish- 
ing vision  of  roast  duck  and  apple  tart  (with  cloves). 

"Am  I  to  understand  that  it 's  livin'  'ere  along  o' 
you  and  I  'm  bein'  requested  to  demean  myself 
waitin'  on  a  bloomin'  swine?"  demanded  Mrs. 
Hobbs,  in  awful  tones,  reaching  for  her  bonnet  of 
many  colours. 

"Oh,  no — we  wait  on  Esmerelda!"  declared  the 
abject  Mick. 

"The  which?"  gasped  the  char-lady.  "Young 
feller,  you  're  drunk!" 

This  was  more  than  Muriel  could  endure. 
Rashly  she  entered  the  arena. 


Conscience — and  a  Pet  Pig !        85 

"How  dare  you  speak  in  such  a  manner  to  my 
husband?"  she  demanded.  "How  dare  you  ac- 
cuse him  of  drinking,  when  all  the  time " 

"Oh,  Muriel,  don'tl" 

"When  all  the  time,"  repeated  the  young  wife 
inexorably,  "he  does  n't  get  a  chance.'1 

Mick  giggled  foolishly,  but  fell  on  gravity 
quickly  enough  as  the  divine  cook's  eye  pierced 
into  the  recesses  of  his  being. 
,  "And  the  whisky  missing  again  yesterday," 
went  on  Muriel,  "nearly  a  whole  bottle  .  .  . 
taken  out  of  his  bed. " 

"And  does  a  decent  feller  take  whisky  to  bed 
with  'im?"  demanded  Mrs.  Hobbs.  "Disgustin* 
— worse  'n  pigs  any  diy.  No  wonder  'e  's  tiken 
one  to  live  alonger  'im — the  only  company  'e  's 
likely  to  'ave.  Ho  yus !  Bottles  of  whisky  in  bed ! 
When  a  young  feller  gets  that  'abit,  and  gets  it 
that  bad,  we  all  know  what  it  leads  to,  not  but 
what  it 's  surprisin'  considerin'  'is  tride  which  is 
what  no  God-fearin'  man  would  tike  up  with  for 
'undreds  of  pounds  which  they  never  get,  always 
bein'  in  debt  and  lyin'  about  money  just  bein'  due. 
Ho  yus!  I  don't  think!" 

"Consider  yourself  dismissed!"  came  sharply 
from  Muriel. 

"Oh,  no,"  gasped  Mick.  "I  have  the  greatest 
respect  for  Mrs.  Hobbs — the  very  greatest." 

"I  wish  I  could  return  the  compliment,  Mr. 
Talbot,"  returned  the  lady,  somewhat  mollified, 
"but  truth  is  truth  an'  journalists  is  journalists! 


86  Vagabond  City 

I  don't  mind  siyin'  that  Mrs.  Talbot  is  a  real  lidy" 
(her  eye  wandered  to  the  great  Mr.  Higgins), 
"an'  God  knows  I  pities  her." 

"  Rather!"  agreed  Mick  fervently.  Every 
moment  he  grew  hungrier. 

"Maybe  there  's  hope  for  you  yet,  Mr.  Talbot, 
but  you  just  tike  my  advice  and  check  the  drink 
'abit  afore  it 's  too  late.  We  all  knows  where  it 
leads  to.  Ho  yus!" 

"We  do  indeed,"  agreed  Mick,  solemnly,  staring 
hard  at  Esmerelda. 

Esmerelda  hoped  it  would  not  lead  to  her  again, 
and  said  so  in  her  own  fashion,  her  grunts  being 
most  pointed. 

"  Mrs.  Hobbs  must  not  speak  to  you  like  that, " 
whispered  Muriel  angrily  to  her  husband.  "Al- 
ways talking  like  that  about  journalists,  too!  I 
will  not  have  it.  Besides,  you  're  an  author; 
that's  different." 

"Rather!"  grinned  Mick.  "A  journalist  gets 
paid:  an  author  does  n't." 

"Oh,  Mick!  And  I  thought  you  'd  be  sure  to 
make  a  lot  of  money  when  the  book  you  're  writing 
now  is  out!" 

"I  shouldn't  wonder  if  I  did!"  he  admitted, 
chuckling  to  himself. 

"If  you  've  got  any  think  what  a  decent 
married  woman  can  'ear,  hout  with  it,  please, 
Mr.  Talbot.  I  don't  'old  with  whisperin'!" 
snorted  the  char-lady,  beginning  to  wrap  up  the 
duck. 


Conscience — and  a  Pet  Pig!         87 

"  I  assure  you  I  would  not  think  of  saying  any- 
thing at  all " 

"  I  've  never  been  a  risky  sort  of  lidy,  Mr.Talbot, 
though  my  'air  was  yaller  as  a  gal,  and  I  'd  thank 
you  to  remember  it.  There  's  them  as  'as  their 
week-hends  in  Paris,  but  I  Ve  never  been  one  of 
them.  I  don't  hold  with  Paris." 

"  I  assure  you, "  said  Mick  softly,  "  that  anything 
in  the  nature  of  a  Past  is  the  last  thing  anyone 
could  associate  with  you.  .  .  .  What  a  charming 
duck!  How  clever  you  are  at  providing.  But 
it 's  a  gift,  like  your  cooking.  We  can't  all  be 
geniuses,  I  suppose,  but  you  must  make  your  li — • 
lady  friends  very  jealous.  Now  I  '11  bet  that  duck 
and  tart  is  better  than  any  meal  I  ever  had  at 
the  Savoy." 

"And  you  won't  lose  your  money,  Mr.  Talbot," 
said  Mrs.  Hobbs,  smirking  graciously.  "As  for 
them  there  Savoys  what  give  theirselves  such  a 
hair,  what  are  they,  the  chefs,  but  pore  benighted 
foreigners,  same  as  them  we  send  missions  hout  to, 
and  dessay  not  converted  worth  countin'  after  all. " 

"You're  right  there!"  Mick  assured  her 
promptly. 

And  the  meal,  if  belated,  was  fit  for  a  king. 


CHAPTER  VI 

CONCERNING   A    LITERARY    EVENT   AND    AN    AUNT 

CSMERELDA  settled  down  wonderfully  as 
*— '  time  went  on,  proving  clever  at  getting  what 
she  wanted,  and  very  much  devoted  to  Muriel, 
who  spoiled  her  atrociously.  Mick  she  tolerated 
as  a  necessary  evil.  It  was  Mick  she  very  nearly 
killed  owing  to  a  habit  neither  of  her  owners  could 
get  her  out  of.  Whenever  either  of  them  started  to 
ride  down  the  nasty  little  hill  with  its  loose  stones 
and  piled  ones  at  the  side,  Esmerelda,  with  a  squeal 
of  excitement,  would  rush  and  try  and  get  her 
snout  between  the  spokes  of  the  machine,  and  it 
was  in  trying  to  avoid  her  that  Mick  landed  heavily 
on  the  heap  of  stones  at  the  side. 

He  was  very  angry  and  kicked  the  pig,  which  fled 
indignantly  home. 

"I  like  her  gratitude,  I  do!"  fumed  the  sufferer, 
trying  to  scrape  the  mud  off  his  clothes.  "I  save 
her  life  at  the  expense  of  money  and  ridicule,  and 
she  tries  to  kill  me — and  might  have  succeeded, 
by  Gad,  if  I  'd  been  a  worse  rider!" 

"I  '11  be  sure  to  see  she  's  shut  up  in  future  be- 
fore we  start,"  said  Muriel  apologetically.  "It 
really  is  dangerous." 

88 


A  Literary  Event  and  an  Aunt      89 

"She  '11  find  it  fatal  if  she  does  it  again!"  said 
Michael  shortly.  "Harrison  would  buy  her  and 
bacon  her  any  day." 

When  they  returned  Muriel  pounced  on  a  bulky 
letter  awaiting  her  and  Mick  lit  his  pipe  and 
yawned,  rather  obviously  bored.  "The  great 
Uncle  William?"  he  enquired. 

"No,  Aunt  Susan,  and  I  don't  see  how  we  can 
refuse.  Oh,  dear!  Do  you  remember  her  at  the 
wedding?" 

"  There  were  such  a  lot  of  aunts. " 

"The  short  stout  one.  .  .  very  stout?" 

"Was  she  tea-spoons  or  a  salt-cellar?" 

"A  tea-caddy." 

"With  tea?" 

"  Don't  be  silly !    Of  course  not ! " 

"Then  I  don't  think  much  of  her.  Was  it  silver 
or  plated?" 

"Plated,"  answered  Muriel,  biting  her  lips, 
"but- 

"  Plated  aunts  and  country-cottage  uncles!"  and 
he  shook  his  head  reproachfully  at  his  wife.  "  I  'm 
afraid  the  heart  of  your  aunt  Susan  was  no  more  in 
the  right  place  than  her  waist  was!  I  remember 
thinking,''  he  added  musingly,  "what  funny- shaped 
relations  I  was  marrying.  What  does  she  want, 
and  is  it  serious?" 

"She  wants  to  come  and  stay,  and  when  Aunt 
Susan  wants  things 

"Fortunately  it's  impossible." 

"But  I  'm  her  god-child  and  favourite  niece, 


90  Vagabond  City 

and  .  .  .  she  's  two  hundred  a  year  of  her  own. 
She  said  once  she  did  n't  believe  in  splitting  money 
up- 

"So  you're  her  possible  heiress.  Hurrah! 
Won't  we  go  it  just  when  you  come  into  all  that, 
— a  motor-car  or  so,  a  house  in  Park  Lane,  and 
a  grouse  moor  for  me!  In  the  meantime  explain 
there  's  no  accommodation  for  living  aunts!" 

"You  always  try  and  make  things  more  difficult," 
she  complained  peevishly.  ' '  You  know  how  lonely 
it_'s  for  me.  I  hate  long  tramps  and  there  's  no  one 
....  you  're  always  at  your  writing.  We  could 
get  a  chair-bed  for  your  dressing-room,  and  you 
could  dress  in  the  bath-room — — " 

"The  bath-room,  lidy,  Ho  yus!  Not  the  back- 
kitchen  by  any  chance!  That  would  be  Low. 
Also  what  about  Mrs.  Hobbs?  Of  course  /  don't 
mind  if  she  does  n't,  and  it  would  only  be  what 
she  'd  expect.  '  Mrs.  Hobbs  and  Mr.  Talbot,  At 
Home  daily  in  the  back-kitchen  from  6  A.M.  to  6.30, 
also  1 1  to  12  P.M.  No  flowers  by  request. ' ' 

"You  know  how  I  hate  that  kind  of  'jokes.' 
I  suppose  you  call  them  jokes?  Mrs.  Hobbs  can 
do  without  the  back-kitchen  for  half  an  hour  in 
the  morning,  and  you  know  she  never  stays  after 
ten  at  night :  besides  you  get  up  so  early,  long  before 
she  appears." 

"But  she  11  appear  if  she  's  not  wanted  to,  and 
demand  to  be  let  into  her  own  quarters  at  once. 
And  you  know  how  frightened  I  am  of  her  already. 
She  'd  be  furious  if  I  did  n't  let  her  in,  and  more 


A  Literary  Event  and  an  Aunt      91 

furious  when  I  did.  Really  Muriel.  .  .!  You 
the  daughter  of  a  clergyman  and  the  niece  of  a 
personage  like  that!"  he  pointed  impressively  to 
where  Mr.  Higgins  in  his  mayoral  robes  occupied 
the  place  of  honour.  "Why  we'd  never  be  able 
to  mention  the  back-kitchen  without  a  blush,  and 
explanations  would  be  truly  awful!" 

"Do  be  quiet,  you  are  never  serious!  She  'd 
cost  nothing  extra." 

"Oh,  of  course,  if  she  's  content  to  share  with 
Esmerelda  that  puts  a  different  complexion  upon 
matters,  but — won't  Esmerelda  be  annoyed?" 

"And  insists  on  paying  thirty  shillings  a  week 
while  she  stays;  she  says  it  would  cost  her  that 
at  a  farm,  and  she  wants  to  be  of  help  to  me  in  my 
troub  —  in  my  new  life,"  she  added,  a  little 
confused. 

"Your  awful  trouble  being  me,"  suggested  Mick 
thoughtfully.  "She's  escaped  'em,  hasn't  she? 
One  of  the  'also-rans,'  eh?" 

"Hush,  Mick!  I  shall  be  able  to  save  pounds, 
for  she  wants  to  stay  for  some  months,  and  look 
what  that  will  mean  towards  the  furnishing.  She 
mentions  you  and  your  work  too." 

1 '  Read  out  that  bit, "  he  begged  solemnly.  ' '  It 's 
sure  to  do  me  good." 

"Where  is  it?  Oh,  yes,  here  we  are — '/  am  so 
interested  to  hear  Michael's  "  Woodland  Essays"  are 
to  appear  at  once  in  book  form.  How  exciting,  is  n't 
it?  I  shall  be  sure  to  get  it  out  of  the  library  and  tell 
my  friends  to  do  so,  even  though  animal  stories  are  n't 


92  Vagabond  City 

suitable  for  grown-ups — still  I  suppose  easier  to  make 
up  and  practise  for  a  start,  and  that  he  will  do  some 
real  work  later  on.  I  was  talking  to  the  curate  about 
it;  he  was  awfully  interested  (he's  a  most  literary 
man):  and  he  said  he  thought  once  of  being  an 
author  himself,  but  the  serious  work  of  life  com- 
pelled him  reluctantly  to  give  up  this  pleasant  form 
of  recreation"' 

"Preferring  to  pursue  an  occupation  that  makes 
no  strain  on  the  intelligence!"  snorted  Mick,  up  in 
arms. 

"Oh,  hush!  If  you  say  such  things  before  Aunt 
Susan " 

"You  '11  lose  the  thirty  shillings  a  week,  and  I, 
the  company  of  Mrs.  Hobbs  during  ablution-time." 

"If  you  're  in  a  position  to  despise  money!" — 
Muriel's  chin  went  up. 

"I  merely  despise  it  when  in  the  unworthy  pos- 
session of  others,"  he  returned  lightly,  saying 
nothing  of  fortune  cast  away  and  opportunities 
despised. 

"And  she  hoped  I  'd  marry  an  earnest  young 
man!" 

"An  earnest  young  man,"  he  repeated  blankly. 
"Tell  her  she  can't  come." 

"Because  you  can't  get  on  with  your  relations 
there's  no  reason  why  I  should  be  estranged  from 
mine." 

"I  'm  only  estranged  when  close  to  them,"  he 
answered  with  a  yawn.  "When  the  seas  do  us 
divide  I  'm  quite  attached  to  them,  even  God-bless 


A  Literary  Event  and  an  Aunt      93 

my  Aunt  Maria — not  knowing  she  'd  a  plated  tea- 
spoon up  her  sleeve  for  me,  and  that  she  'd  cry  at 
my  wedding  and  say  how  sad  it  was  to  think  of  a 
nice  girl's  life  being  spoilt " 

"We  can  get  the  chair-bed  in  Southampton. 
You  said  you  were  going  in  this  week;  Tuesday 
would  do,  surely?  We  could  meet  Aunt  Susan  and 
have  the  bed  put  in  the  train  and  brought  up  by 
the  pig-cart. " 

"  Then  she  did  n't  write  to  ask  if  she  might  come, 
but  to  say  she  was  coming?  Well,  kismet."  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  then  he  undid  his  own  par- 
cel, and  pushed  a  book  across  to  his  wife.  "Here  's 
a  copy  of  Woodland  Essays  for  you,"  he  said 
gently.  "  I  got  my  copies  to-day.  I  hope  you  '11 
like  it." 

"Is  it  likely  to  bring  in  much  money?"  she  asked, 
taking  it  up. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  answered,  a  little  shortly. 
"I  doubt  it.  I  have  already  been  paid  as  I  told 
you." 

"A  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  is  n't  at  all  bad, " 
she  said  encouragingly,  "and  it  seems  a  lot  for 
what  it  is,  though  the  illustrations  are  lovely.  I 
had  no  idea  it  was  going  to  be  as  nice  as  that. 
Of  course  I  shall  read  it,  though  I  suppose  it  is 
really  only  meant  for  children." 

"Of  a  larger  growth,"  he  retorted,  "but  there, 
it  is  hopeless !  I  hate  most  of  it  myself.  It  went 
wrong  from  the  start. "  He  paced  up  and  down  the 
room,  his  face  set  in  lines  of  irritation. 


94  Vagabond  City 

"  It 's  nice  for  children  to  learn  about  animals, " 
said  Muriel  soothingly. 

'  'Children  don't  learn :  they  teach."  He  flung  her 
an  angry,  odd  look. 

"Mick,  dear,  don't  talk  such  nonsense:  one 
would  n't  have  governesses  for  them  if  that  were 
the  case." 

Mick  made  no  reply.  Passionately  he  was 
wishing  the  Elf  had  not  gone  out  of  his  life,  nor 
Muriel  come  into  it.  He  would  have  liked  Miss 
Elphenstonne  to  read  Woodland  Essays  and  have 
a  little  understanding,  a  little  compassion,  for 
the  ideals  he  had  fallen  so  short  of.  At  least  they 
had  been  there.  But  he  knew  nothing  of  her 
save  that  her  picture  was  to  be  exhibited  in  the 
Wayne  Gallery  later  on. 

Muriel ,  believing  it  her  duty  as  a  wife,  struggled 
valiantly  with  the  book,  but  could  not  help  wishing 
it  had  a  proper  story  in  it  and  the  usual  "love 
interest."  With  the  exception  of  Esmerelda,  she 
did  not  like  or  in  the  least  understand  animals,  and 
after  she  had  read  a  little  while  began  to  feel  she 
did  not  want  to  understand  these.  Mick  glanced 
at  her  half -humorously.  "Don't  worry  with  it," 
he  said  kindly,  at  length.  "  I  shall  do  better  some 
day " 

Muriel  however  read  on,  her  face  appalled.  She 
thought  the  writer  gross  when  he  dealt  frankly, 
simply,  cleanly,  with  elemental  facts  of  animal 
life.  Such  natural-history  facts,  ought,  she  felt, 
to  have  oeen  wrapped  up  carefully  in  silver  paper. 


A  Literary  Event  and  an  Aunt      95 

Perhaps  she  preferred  the  silver  paper  to  the  facts 
—Nature  was  such  a  shocking  old  lady!  It  was 
bad  to  be  offended :  it  was  worse  to  be  bored.  Who 
would  want  to  read  a  book  like  this?  How  was  it 
going  to  make  any  money? 

He  saw  the  questions  on  her  face  and  answered 
them.  "No — I  shan't  get  any  more  money  from 
it;  nobody  will  want  to  read  it.  I  only  wrote  it 
because  my  passion  for  earth  and  nature  and  all 
things  primitive  got  the  better  of  me.  I  ought  to 
have  written  some  catch-penny  thing  instead,  have 
remembered  those  who  respect  you,"  he  glanced 
towards  the  photo,  "as  long  as  you  make  money 
out  of  your  craft.  I  thought  only  of  what  I  liked 
instead  of  making  a  cash  result  my  basis.  I  have 
been  a  fool  and  a  dreamer!"  he  laughed  curtly, 
"and — a  failure." 

"Oh,  no,  Mick,  not  yet —  A  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds  is  a  nice  little  sum,  and  the  next  time  it  will 
be  a  real  book,  not  just  essays,  perhaps  a  novel — 
a  proper  grown-up  novel  that  pays." 

"What  would  you  say  to  an  improper  grown-up 
novel?  They  pay,  you  know  .  .  .  sometimes?" 

"I  should  n't  like  people  to  know  my  husband 
was  that  sort  of  author.  It  would  make  conversa- 
tion so  awkward.  No  nice-minded  woman  reads 
improper  books.  Father  used  to  preach  against 
the  coarse  tendency  of  the  literature  of  the  day." 

"What  a  nice  free  advertisement  for  the  coarse 
literature!  I  hope  he  mentioned  it  by  name  for 
the  sake  of  the  author,  and  sent  them  copies  of  his 


96  Vagabond  City 

sermon  to  publish!  'Banned  by  the  Vicar,'  you 
know — such  a  helpful  title  to  a  cunning  little 
paragraph.  So  nice-minded  women  don't  read 
improper  novels!  Funny  how  they  sell,  some  of 
them — especially  when  you  think  of  the  countless 
nice-minded  women!  But  of  course  you  are  right 
in  one  way,  many  don't  order  them  at  the  libraries 
where  they  are  known,  but  go  to  the  expense  of 
privately  buying  a  copy  elsewhere — which  is 
rather  better  from  the  author's  point  of  view!" 

"I  'm  sure  they  don't,"  declared  Muriel  posi- 
tively. She  had  never  done  so  herself. 

On  Tuesday  they  went  into  Southampton  by  an 
early  train,  bought  the  chair-bed,  and  wandered 
up  and  down  the  picturesque  little  town.  Mick 
would  have  liked  to  go  and  see  the  ships  but  dared 
not  trust  himself.  Would  he  be  content  with  see- 
ing, when  the  highway  of  the  seas  beckoned?  He 
would  keep  out  of  the  reach  of  temptation,  and 
instead  went  into  the  shop  of  delicious  chocolates 
close  to  the  Bar,  and  came  out  with  a  couple  of  big 
boxes.  One  he  handed  to  his  wife,  the  other  he 
started  upon  with  the  greed  of  a  healthy  school- 
boy, careless  of  smart  people  from  priceless  yachts 
staring  at  him  in  surprise. 

"Oh,  don't  eat  them  in  the  street — it 's  so  com- 
mon ! ' '  begged  Muriel.  ' '  Look  at  those  people  who 
passed.  How  they  stared. " 

"Well,  I  stared  back,"  he  returned,  unperturbed. 
' '  A  jolly  pretty  woman.  Here  she  is  again ! ' '  and  he 
popped  another  chocolate  into  his  mouth  and  met 


A  Literary  Event  and  an  Aunt      97 

the  eyes  of  the  pretty  woman,  with  a  smile  lurking 
in  his  own. 

"Oh,  Jack, "  said  the  woman  to  her  husband,  as 
they  passed  on,  "did  you  notice  that  delightful- 
looking  man?  Such  a  personality — and  such  a 
wife!  Impossible,  you  know,  but  he " 

"Oh,  hang  it,  Jean,  you  are  always  catching  the 
eyes  of  delightful  men  with  impossible  wives!"  re- 
torted her  elderly  husband,  impatiently,  as  he 
hurried  her  along.  "It 's  a  shocking  habit!" 

"Therefore  delightful!"  was  the  reply  of  the 
pretty  woman.  "And  he  was  just  the  sort  of  man 
I  could  fall  most  terribly  in  love  with!" 

"Well,  as  we  're  off  to  Cowes  in  half  an  hour  you 
won't  get  the  chance, "  was  the  grim  retort  of  her 
lord  and  master. 

Mick  had  forgotten  his  fair  admirer  before  she 
had  passed  out  of  sight,  and  moved  up  High  Street 
staring  intently  into  all  the  bookshops.  He  was 
hoping  to  see  Woodland  Essays  displayed  therein ; 
but  there  was  no  sign  of  Woodland  Essays  any- 
where— only  many  copies  of  a  novel  of  very 
different  stamp. 

When  they  returned  to  the  station  later  in  the 
day  Mick  met  with  fresh  disappointment  at  the 
bookstalls.  No  Woodland  Essays  here  though  it 
was  only  a  few  miles  into  the  heart  of  Woodland 
itself.  As  a  matter  of  fact  more  than  half  the 
stall  was  covered  with  a  pile  of  the  book  he  had 
previously  noticed.  It  was  rather  a  noticeable 
pile.  There  were  lurid  colours  and  an  illustration 


98  Vagabond  City 

of  a  tall  thin  female  with  a  very  big  coronet — 
rather  crooked  and  out  of  drawing — trying  to  kiss  a 
very  suburban-looking  young  man  against  his  will. 
One  wondered  alike  at  her  determination,  and  her 
taste,  and  looking  inside  the  covers  and  discovering 
big  print,  a  certain  risque  and  easily  read  style,  one 
bought  it  in  preference  to  soberer  literature.  A 
flaming  poster  advertised  The  Doubtful  Duchess 
by  "A  Doubter,"  while  a  certain  clever,  pushful 
publisher  stood  as  godfather.  The  rapid  sale 
must  have  rejoiced  the  heart  of  publisher  and  au- 
thor alike. 

It  seemed  to  fascinate  Mick,  and  to  possess  a 
positively  unholy  interest  for  Muriel,  whose  eyes 
were  drawn  to  its  lurid  attractions  time  after 
time. 

"I  wonder  who  'The  Doubter'  is,"  she  mut- 
tered, "another  of  them,  I  suppose?" 

"Another  of  whom?" 

"Oh,  duchesses,  and  those  sort  of  people." 

' '  More  likely  one  who  has  never  seen  a  duchess ! ' ' 
he  returned. 

"Oh,  no,  Mick,  I  'm  sure  it 's  the  real  thing:  it 
looks  so  like  it."  She  turned  a  page  eagerly  as 
she  spoke,  and  skimmed  a  line  or  two. 

"Had  n't  you  better  come  away  before  the  man 
makes  you  buy  it?"  he  suggested.  "It  looks  im- 
proper to  me,  the  sort  of  novel  no  nice-minded 
woman  would  think  of  reading — in  public!" 

Muriel  clung  to  the  book  with  itching  fingers. 
"Such  a  title!"  she  cried.  "I  expect  it's  quite 


A  Literary  Event  and  an  Aunt      99 

harmless.  Besides  people  ought  to  learn  about  all 
sorts  of  society,  don't  you  think?" 

"Here  's  the  London  train.  Do  you  want  Miss 
Dalton  to  find  you  with  The  Doubtful  Duchess 
clasped  to  your  bosom?" 

She  came  reluctantly  away,  but  when  Mick 
left  her  to  see  about  the  chair-bed  being  put  in  the 
Totton  train,  she  drifted  back  again.  The  clerk 
looked  up,  his  face  expressionless,  and  wrapped  a 
copy  of  the  lurid  novel  in  a  piece  of  brown  paper. 
"We  shan't  have  any  left  soon,  madam,"  he  said, 
"there  's  been  such  a  run  on  it!  The  first  edition 
was  sold  in  three  days  ....  some  say  the  title 
started  it:  no  one  knows  who  the  author  is, 
though,"  dropping  his  voice,  "they  have  their 
suspicions,"  and  he  whispered  the  name  of  a 
certain  young  duchess. 

Muriel  slipped  the  parcel  into  the  big  pocket  of 
her  coat,  and  was  looking  entirely  unconscious  of 
its  contents  when  Mick  returned  to  her  side. 

Miss  Dalton,  a  lady  with  the  valiant  type  of 
waist  that  never  gives  in — or  rather  out — arrived, 
important  and  fussy,  and  liberally  supplied  with 
parcels.  She  kissed  Muriel,  told  her  she  was  look- 
ing older,  but  added  vaguely  she  "supposed  one 
did,"  and  then  turned  to  Mick.  "I  bought  your 
book,"  she  said  patronisingly,  "though  I  could 
have  got  it  out  of  the  library  for  tuppence.  I  am 
going  to  read  it  this  week  and  then  send  it  to  my 
small  nephew  Tommy  for  his  birthday.  He  is 
very  interested  in  animals,  and  kills  and  catches 


ioo  Vagabond  City 

all  the  flies  he  can.  I  must  say  five  shillings  seems 
a  lot  to  pay  for  a  child's  book,  even  though  the 
illustrations  are  really  charming.  Does  the  author 
do  those  too,  or  is  the  publisher  the  illustrator? 
Anyway  they  simply  make  the  book.  The  other 
people  in  the  carriage  agreed  with  me.  I  showed  it 
them  and  asked  them  to  look  out  for  your  proper 
book,  not  just  essays,  though  of  course  quite  nice 
for  a  start  .  .  .  that  you  were  my  nephew." 

"What  an  inducement!"  grinned  Michael  to 
himself,  while  he  gazed  in  alarm  at  her  very  promi- 
nent and  insecure-looking  false  teeth.  He  hoped 
they  were  safer  than  they  looked,  for  he  was  not 
skilled  in  keeping  his  countenance,  or  hiding  his 
feelings.  Aloud  he  said  humbly,  "Yes,  I  'm  afraid 
Woodland  Essays  is  rather  dear  at  the  price — in 
more  senses  than  one. " 

"You  can  get  a  real  novel  for  four-and-six," 
went  on  Miss  Dalton,  a  trifle  resentfully,  as  one 
who  has  been  "done"  by  a  relative — albeit  only 
a  relative  by  marriage,  "a  proper  one  for  grown- 
ups." Her  eyes  were  on  a  tray  of  Doubtful 
Duchesses. 

"Even  an  improper  one  is  no  more — unless  in 
your  eagerness  you  buy  it  at  a  station  for  six  shil- 
lings, and  lose  your  discount,"  he  remarked 
thoughtfully.  He  was  standing  close  to  Muriel's 
bulky  pocket. 

Muriel  went  pink.  Still  no  doubt  it  was  worth 
it!  Surely  if  a  duchess  wrote  it  .  .  .!  and  one 
did  not  haggle  with  duchesses!  She  pushed  it 


A  Literary  Event  and  an  Aunt    101 

deeper  into  her  pocket.  Mick  must  not  know,  he 
would  laugh — he  laughed  at  everything — and 
above  all  the  susceptibilities  of  the  rigid  spinster 
aunt  must  be  spared.  Of  course  as  a  married 
woman  she  might  now  be  permitted  more  catholic 
tastes.  But  Miss  Dalton  was  extremely  particular. 

"Allow  me  to  take  your  parcels,"  suggested 
Miss  Dalton's  nephew-in-law,  without  enthusiasm. 
"There  's  just  two  minutes  for  the  train." 

The  spinster  surrendered  all  save  a  brown  paper 
parcel  to  which  she  clung  with  passionate  devotion. 
Mick's  heart  warmed  suddenly  to  her,  for  the  shape 
was  the  shape  of  his  book.  Then  his  mouth  took 
its  cynical  curve:  need  he  be  flattered?  Miss 
Dalton  was  merely  keeping  her  "five  shillings  net" 
intact. 

"I  see  you  are  keeping  it  clean,"  he  said  pleas- 
antly. 

Miss  Dalton  glared  at  him;  her  red  face  turned 
redder.  "To  what  do  you  allude? "  she  demanded. 

"  Is  n't  it  Woodland  Essays?  "  Mick  too  went  red 
and  felt  uncommonly  foolish. 

"It  is  not:  it  is  merely  a  novel  I  bought  for  my 
own  pleasure.  I  gave  you  your  book  to  carry;  it 
was  with  the  Stilton  cheese." 

"I  assure  you  you  are  mistaken:  its  absence  is 
as  obvious  as  the  presence  of  the  other." 

"I  have  always  been  accustomed  to  the  best 
cheese,  and  I  did  n't  suppose  you  'd  get  real  Stilton 
in  the  wilds,  so  I  brought  one  as  a  small  offering. 
But  I  am  sure  the  book  was  there  as  well. " 


IO2  Vagabond  City 

"You  had  only  the  one  you  are  carrying  when 
you  arrived." 

"Then  I  must  have  left  it  in  the  train!"  Miss 
Dalton  cried,  aggrieved,  glaring  at  Mick  as  if  he 
alone  were  to  blame  as  author.  "Tiresome  thing! 
And  I  've  wasted  five  shillings — I  shall  have  to  give 
Tommy  something  else  for  his  birthday." 

"Send  him  an  order  for  half-a-crown,  then  you 
will  have  saved  two-and-six,  and  have  earned  the 
gratitude  of  Tommy, "  suggested  Mick,  with  great 
gravity. 

Her  face  cleared,  but  fell  again,  for  on  examina- 
tion she  found  the  theory  hollow.  "I  shall  have 
lost  half-a-crown  and  five  shillings!"  she  declared 
tragically. 

"But  Tommy  at  least  will  be  a  gainer." 

"Now  the  guard  will  take  it  home  to  his  children. 
How  annoying ! " 

"I  expect  they  '11  think  so,"  he  agreed,  handing 
her  into  the  Totton  train  and  seeing  to  the  safe 
disposal  of  her  numerous  parcels. 

Miss  Dalton  and  the  chair-bed  were  fitted  into 
the  little  dressing-room  and  the  lady  of  independent 
means  declared  herself  delighted  with  all  she  saw. 

The  cottage  was  so  "quaint,"  and  how  "gener- 
ous" it  was  of  "dear  William"!  The  trees  bud- 
ding into  spring  green  were  "perfectly  sweet " :  even 
Esmerelda,  who  always  made  up  to  the  powers  that 
be,  found  favour  in  the  sight  of  the  gracious  guest. 
She  was  so  "original."  Then  Mrs.  Hobbs  ex- 
celled herself  at  supper  and  all  went,  as  Mick  re- 


A  Literary  Event  and  an  Aunt    103 

marked,  "as  merry  as  if  there  never  had  been  any 
wedding-bells." 

Going  up  late  after  hours  of  writing,  Mick 
sleepily  forgot  all  about  the  new  occupant  of  his 
dressing-room,  and  had  opened  the  door  before  he 
remembered  that  in  future  he  must  be  more  cir- 
cumspect. He  managed  to  shut  it  before  Miss 
Dalton,  sitting  up  in  bed  absorbed  in  The  Doubt- 
ful Duchess,  had  time  to  see  or  hear  anything.  He 
leaned  against  the  wall  shaken  with  silent  laughter. 
"And  if  she  knew  I  was  the  'Doubter'  there  'd  be 
the  devil  to  pay!"  he  chuckled. 

As  he  entered  his  own  room,  a  candle  was  hastily 
blown  out,  and  Muriel  dropped  on  her  pillows, 
feigning  sleep. 

But  he  had  caught  sight  of  a  certain  lurid  cover, 
and  as  he  lay  in  bed  stifled  his  mirth  as  best  he 
could.  Every  now  and  then  he  choked  from  un- 
der the  pillow  and  his  bed  shook,  but  Muriel,  genu- 
inely asleep,  was  quite  unconscious  of  his  ribaldry. 


CHAPTER   VII 

JARRING  ELEMENTS 

MICK  TALBOT  appeared  for  breakfast  after 
his  long  morning  ramble  in  what  his  wife 
mentally  named  "a  mood." 

"G'morning, "  he  said  curtly.  "Where's  the 
fair  guest?  Is  she  going  to  keep  us  waiting  for 
breakfast  because  she  's  your  godmother  and  has 
two  hundred  a  year  of  her  very  own?" 

"I  took  it  up,"  said  Muriel.  "She  doesn't 
care  to  get  up  so  early. " 

His  face  cleared.  There  was  then  to  be  one 
meal  free  of  Miss  Dalton's  presence.  Believing 
that  to  live  with  stupidity  was  to  become  stupid, 
Mick  was  not  likely  to  "grow"  in  the  company  of 
Muriel  and  her  aunt. 

"Really,  this  little  hole  is  too  crowded  foraunts !" 
he  said  irritably.  "And  she 's  not  even  a  slim  one ! 
If  it  were  an  aunt  with  a  secret  sorrow  now,  a 
mere  shadow!" 

"Poor  Aunt  Susan  has  a  sorrow,  a  great  sorrow, " 
said  Muriel,  reprovingly.  "I  wish  you  weren't 
so  flippant!" 

For  flippant  he  was,  given  to  senseless  vulgar 
104 


Jarring  Elements  105 

jokes,  careless  of  convention,  coarse.  It  was  all 
mere  exuberance,  temperament,  often  sheer  misery, 
but,  of  course,  it  would  have  been  impossible  to 
make  Muriel  realise  that. 

She  could  see  that  he  was  specially  offensive 
this  morning:  but  she  could  not  guess  the  cause, 
the  torment  of  unrest,  of  longing,  that  would  not 
let  the  man  alone. 

"What 's  her  secret  sorrow?  Her  waist — or  lack 
of  it?" 

"Of  course  that  is  a  trial,  but  not  like  the  other. 
She  was  engaged  once,  and  his  ship  went  down  at 
sea." 

' '  A  lucky  escape — poor  devil ! ' '  He  dug  viciously 
at  the  ham. 

"He  didn't  escape,  dear.  He  was  drowned," 
returned  Muriel,  trying  to  be  patient.  Mick  never 
"saw"  things. 

"What 's  drowning?"  asked  her  husband,  with  a 
shrug. 

She  flushed  angrily.  "They  would  have  been 
very  happy — when  he  'd  got  accustomed  to  her." 

"Such  being  marriage!  Of  course  one  always 
is.  Sometimes  it  takes  a  lifetime  to  get  accus- 
tomed though — and  a  bit  beyond  that  again,"  he 
thought,  with  an  inward  groan.  "Heaven  help  us 
both!  Heaven  helped  him!"  he  added  grimly, 
aloud. 

"You  say  this  sort  of  thing  because  she  's  my 
relation!  You  'd  even  make  fun  of  Uncle  Wil- 
liam, and  it  is  n't  as  if  you  had  a  rich  relation." 


io6  Vagabond  City 

The  subtle  could  read  a  hint  of  reproach,  of  con- 
descension, and  Mick's  bitter,  mobile  lips  twisted. 

"Rich  relations  make  me  think  of  peonies,"  he 
retorted;  "rich  and  red,  not  to  be  overlooked,  and 
needing  a  great  deal  of  room.  I  Ve  always  hated 
the  pomposity  of  peonies,  and  even  before  I  owned 
a  rich  relation — by  marriage — they  made  me  think 
of  them." 

Mr.  Higgins  had  filled  up  the  room  at  the  wed- 
ding, in  more  senses  than  one. 

"  It 's  over  five  hundred  thousand  pounds  and  he 
knows  quite  a  lot  of  swell  people." 

"You  mean  the  'swell  people'  know  the  five 
hundred  thousand  pounds  and  ignore  or  tolerate 
the  owner.  But  only  five  hundred  thousand!  I 
am  disappointed.  Thousands  instead  of  millions. 
I  knew  a  chap  with  twenty  millions  once — a  miser- 
able devil  he  was,  too!" 

"He  is  making  more  all  the  time,  and  there  is 
talk  of  a  peerage.  He  is  very  prominent  in  church 
and  charitable  circles." 

"In  training  at  any  rate,"  laughed  Mick,  "if 
only  in  one  sense  of  the  word.  Funny  how  money 
seems  to  fly  to  the  stomach, "  he  added  gravely. 

"  Mick!  How  can  you  be  so  disgustingly  vul- 
gar!" 

"It's  quite  easy  with  custom,"  he  returned, 
"though  of  course  it 's  shocking  to  talk  like  that  of 
a  live  peer.  Now,  a  stuffed  one — of  course,  not 
in  the  sense  that  he  is  stuffed — would  be  different. 
I  suppose  one  gets  quite  an  adept  at  mentioning 


Jarring  Elements  107 

him  carelessly  in  converstion.  'Talking  about 
cooks,  there's  my  uncle,  Lord  Holocast,  you  know 
.  .  .  .'  and  so  forth." 

Muriel  bit  her  lips.  "One  doesn't:  it's  con- 
sidered vulgar." 

"But  how  are  people  to  know  you  own  a  peer  if 
you  don't  tell  'em?"  he  asked,  in  distressed  tones. 

"There  are  ways  .  .  .  you  can  safely  leave  that 
to  me." 

"  I  'm  sure  I  can.  In  the  meanwhile,  the  honour 
is  still  to  come.  What  a  joke!" 

"A  peerage  a  joke?" 

"Well,  I  always  think  the  only  way  to  carry  off  a 
new  peerage  gracefully  is  to  pretend  it 's  a  joke. 
It  saves  a  lot  if  you  do  the  laughing  yourself.' ' 

"The  laughing!  You  have  the  maddest  ideas, 
Mick!  I  do  hope  you  won't  air  them  before  Aunt 
Susan !  We  've  all  been  brought  up  with  refined 
people. " 

"I  suppose  I  do  lack  refinement,"  owned  Mick. 
"I'd  never  thought  of  it  before,  somehow. " 

"I  wish  you  would  begin  to  think  of  it  now.  It 's 
quite  time  if  we  are  to  get  on  socially,  and  of  course 
this  life  is  only  for  a  short  time." 

"  I  sincerely  hope  so ! "  His  grey  eyes  darkened. 
"Shall  I  take  Mrs.  Hobbs  for  my  model?"  he 
asked.  "  She  is  a  real  lidy.  Hoyus!" 

Something,  almost  a  sniff,  escaped  Muriel. 
Really  Mick  was  more  than  aggravating! 

Gravely  he  handed  her  his  handkerchief. 
"Only  don't  blow  too  loudly  in  the  rich  uncle's 


io8  Vagabond  City 

cottage,"  he  implored,  "or,  like  Jericho,  the 
walls  may  fall  down,  and  who  knows  if  Aunt 
Susan  is  prepared  for  such  an  expose.  One  might 
even  be  in  one's  bath." 

Muriel  flung  back  the  handkerchief,  and  glared 
at  the  tormentor. 

"Once, "  he  went  on  inconsequently,  in  the  way 
her  insensible  conmon-sense  could  never  follow, 
"  I  was  in  the  wilds  of  Japan  and  requiring  a  bath 
ordered  one  at  a  geisha-house " 

"What  were  you  doing  in  one  of  those  dreadful 
places?"  she  demanded  suspiciously. 

"Trying  to  get  a  bath.  After  I  had  made  the 
disappointed  ladies  understand  they  need  not  help 
or  supervise " 

Muriel  jumped  to  her  feet.  ' '  That  will  do,  Mick ! 
Do  you  hear.  That  will  do !  I  never  know  what 
you  're  going  to  say  next!" 

"Would  you  rather  I  said  it  next  to  Aunt 
Susan?  "  asked  the  irritating  creature.  "  I  thought 
you  ought  to  know.  You  're  my  wife,  and  it 's 
one  of  my  mad,  bad  pasts.  Somebody  must  know 
what  a  naughty  boy  I  was  .  .  .!"  He  wept  im- 
aginary tears  of  repentance  over  the  table-cloth. 

"Very  well,  go  on."  And  she  set  her  lips.  It 
was  all  very  well  to  read  about  risque  episodes  in  the 
career  of  The  Doubtful  Duchess,  but  it  was  a  very 
different  matter  to  hear  about  such  episodes  in  the 
career  of  the  man  she  had  married,  and  from  his 
own  unrepentant,  mocking  lips!  He  was  not 
"nice."  If  there  "had  been  things,"  men  pre- 


Jarring  Elements  109 

tended  there  had  n't  or  ignored  them  when  they 
were  married  to  "nice"  wives.  But  what  had 
Mick  ever  the  decency  to  ignore? 

"Well,  I  had  my  bath,  a  leisurely  bath,"  he 
continued,  "and  after  I  had  dressed,  also  in  the 
most  leisurely  fashion,  I  discovered  five  little 
holes  poked  through  the  paper  walls,  and  five  lit- 
tle, bright,  interested  eyes.  ...  I  was  the  first 
Englishman  they  had  seen,  but  was  foolish  enough 
to  feel  hideously  embarrassed,  instead  of  realising 
that,  because  it  was  nothing  to  them,  it  could  be 
nothing  to  me. " 

"Things  like  that  don't  happen  to  nice  people!" 
exclaimed  the  shocked  wife.  "You  seem  to  have 
travelled  in  a  most  peculiar  way. " 

"Well  .  .  .  not  via  discreet  Mr.  Cook,"  owned 
the  culprit.  "I  like  to  get  down  to  bed-rock. 
The  usual  tourist  never  sees  the  life  of  strange 
countries  at  all.  He  sees  shows  faked  for  his  seeing 
and — other  tourists.  And  other  tourists  are  often 
what  he  prefers,  and  about  the  only  thing  he  under- 
stands. " 

"I  shall  travel  with  Mr.  Cook  if  ever  I " 

Mick  held  up  a  horrified  admonishing  hand. 
"What — my  immaculate  Muriel!  But  I  shall 
divorce  you  just  the  same,"  and  added  quickly 
with  a  grin: 

"She  took  'er  'ook 
With  Mister  Cook, 
To  go  and  look 
For  a  shy  nook. 


no 


Vagabond  City 


But  her  husband  he  was  snorty, 

He  made  her  une  divorcee, 

And  now  that  erstwhile  lidy 

Is  considered  somewhat  shidy 

And  is  'beached'  upon  the  shores  of  Cook-her 

Done  on  the  spot,  and  full  of  genuine  passion  and 

poetry!"  .      ,, 

1  "How  you  can!"  cried  Muriel,  making  for  the 

"Ah!  .  .  .  you  can't  learn  it,  it 's  a  gift.    Shall 
I  do  some  more?" 

But  Muriel  was  already  stumbling  up  the  dark 
stairs  to  her  aunt's  room,  wondering  if  ever  woman 
had  been  so  tried  before.  It  was  possible  that  in 
the  world  there  was  even  a  woman  who  could  be 
happy  with  Mick  and  he  with  her.  But  God  had 
given  him  her— and  her  him,  and— her  mouth 
twisted  peevishly — she  had  been  taught  to  believe 
in  His  good  purpose.  It  was  not  easy — and  it 
was  so  very  little  better  than  not  marrying  at  all ! 

"Ah,"  said  Miss  Dalton,  after  one  glance  at  her 
face.  "I  said  so  from  the  beginning.  I  felt  sure 
he  was  that  kind  of  a  husband!" 

Muriel  burst  into  the  bitter  tears  of  disillusion. 
"If  only  he  were  n't  so — so  dreadful!"  she  sobbed. 
1 '  Do  you  mean  shocking? ' '     Miss  Dalton  was  all 
interested  alertness.     "Tell  me  about  it!    It  will 
make  you  feel  better." 
"He  says  such  things!" 
Perhaps  a  brief  flash  of  disappointment  passed 


Jarring  Elements  HI 

over  Miss  Dalton's  face.  She  wanted  her  niece 
to  be  happy,  but  she  did  not  want  her  to  keep 
drama  to  herself. 

"He  makes  fun  of  all  I've  been  brought  up 
to  hold  sacred,"  sobbed  Muriel  incoherently. 
"Money,  and  Uncle  William,  and  peerages,  and 
God " 

"Makes  fun?" 

"I  know — it  sounds  impossible,  but  he  does! 
He  's  never  serious  about  serious  things,  never! 
And  he  jests  about  morality  too,  and  getting  on  in 
the  world,  and  religion,  and  refinement,  and  social 
distinctions  .  .  .  and,  oh!  everything!  I  suppose 
it 's  the  artistic  temperament " 

Miss  Dalton  snorted  indignantly.  "The  artis- 
tic temperament!  Oh,  I  know  all  about  it.  I 
warned  you  of  that,  too,  you  may  remember?" 

Muriel  did — not  without  resentment.  After 
all,  Michael  was  her  husband,  and  could  be  very 
nice  at  times. 

"They  call  it  that  when  they  steal  money  or 
borrow  it,  or  are  unfaithful  to  their  wives, "  went 
on  Miss  Dalton,  as  one  who  knew.  "It  must  be 
very  convenient  for  them;  writers  always  have  it 
and  think  they  have  n't — or  have  n't  it,  and  think 
they  have.  But  they  always  know  about  other 
people.  It 's  part  of  the — the — 

"Disease?"  asked  Muriel  shortly. 

"Environment  is  a  better  word.  If  Mick  has 
got  it,  now  is  the  time  to  put  an  end  to  it.  It  just 
wants  firmness  and  self-control.  Always  begin 


112 


Vagabond  City 


on  a  man  the  minute  you  are  married,  or  it  may  be 
too  late  afterwards.     You  must  persevere,  dear. 

Muriel's  face  set  in  heavy,  sullen  lines.  I  ve 
done  my  best,  but  you  don't  know  Mick.  He  is 
terribly  difficult  and— and  elusive.  And  though 
of  course  he  is  very  fond  of  me,  yet  he  's  not  actu- 
ally in  love,  if  you  know  what  I  mean." 

"You've  been  married  six  months,"  said  the 
spinster,  struggling  with  her  waist-belt. 

"Think  of  the  Hemnies.  They  'd  been  married 
six  years,  and  he  idolised  her!" 

"I  never  approved  of  Mrs.  Hemnies, "  said  Miss 
Dalton.  ' '  Besides,  she  was  odd.  They  were  botn 
odd;  not  quite  nice,  I  often  thought."  And  thus 
in  a  few  words  were  a  charming,  brilliant,  and  de- 
voted couple  disposed  of.  They  really  were  un- 
usual, consequently  "odd"  and  "not  quite  nice." 
"She  wasn't  very  pretty,  and  said  such  queer 
things,"  complained  Muriel,  "but  he  always 
seemed  so  proud  of  her — quite  like  a  lover!" 

"Very  bad  taste,"  frowned  Miss  Dalton,  who 
had  dimly  felt  another  meaning  behind  the  elusive 
speeches  of  the  fascinating  and  witty  Mrs.  Hemnies. 
"  I  should  be  sorry  to  see  a  niece  of  mine  attracting 
everybody's  attention  the  way  she  did,  and  having 
a  crowd  always  round  her!  But  surely  in  six 
months  you  ought  to  have  influenced  Mick  more. 
His  mouth  is  as  unpleasantly  primitive-looking  as 
ever.  Really  it  is  not  gentlemanly  to  have  a 
mouth  like  that !  How  much  money  has  he  made? 
That  tiresome  book  that  I  lost,  now?  Did  he  get 


Jarring  Elements  113 

anything  for  it,  if  he  did  n't  do  the  illustrations? 
It  does  seem  silly  of  an  author  not  to  be  able  to  do 
his  own  illustrations.  He  should  learn  without 
loss  of  time." 

"He  got  ten  pounds  a  week  for  each  of  the  essays, 
which  came  to  a  hundred  pounds,  and  fifty  pounds 
for  the  copyright  of  the  book.  That  is,  a  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds  so  far,  but  he  does  not  expect 
anything  more. " 

"I  should  think  not  indeed!"  gasped  Miss 
Dalton,  who  considered  he  had  been  outrageously 
over-paid.  "Fancy  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds 
for  a  thing  like  that — so  small  I  mean, "  she  added 
hastily.  "And  not  even  a  grown-up  novel!  Oh 
dear,  it  is  annoying!  I  left  it  in  the  train!  I 
might  as  well  have  kept  the  money  in  my  pocket. 
How  long  did  it  take  him  to  do?" 

"Three  months." 

"Then  what  has  he  been  doing  with  the  other 
three  months?  Not  idling,  I  trust,  when  he  can 
make  six  hundred  pounds  a  year  at  a  simple  thing 
like  that!  These  writing  people  have  no  business 
instincts.  I  always  said  so." 

Mick  was,  however,  the  first  of  the  fraternity 
she  had  ever  spoken  to. 

"He  hasn't  been  wasting  time."  The  young 
wife  bridled  a  little.  "Ever  since  we  came  he  's 
been  at  another  book — though  he  hasn't  said 
anything  to  me  about  it." 

"Why  not?  Is  it  anything  to  be  ashamed  of? 
I  hope  he  is  n't  writing  any  of  the  wicked,  improper 


ii4  Vagabond  City 

stuff  one  hears  about.     A  nephew  of  mine— it 
would  be  dreadful!" 

"  Oh,  he  would  n't  think  of  such  a  thing ! "  Muriel 
hastened  to  assure  the  alarmed  spinster. 

"He  ought  to  sell  a  book  every  three  months, 
then  you  could  see  where  you  were,  and  it 's  your 
duty  to  keep  him  to  it,  Muriel." 
"He  says  you  can't  go  on  at  that  rate,  that  you 

get  stale,  must  have  a  good  rest " 

"Ah  .  .  .  lazy!  Like  the  rest  of  them. 
But  he 's  a  married  man  with  responsibilities. 
What 's  the  name  of  the  new  book?" 

"He  says  it  is  n't  in  my  line."  She  stooped  to 
pick  up  a  pin.  Though  incapable  of  understand- 
ing, she  was  not  incapable  of  resentment  at  the 
secrecy  he  maintained. 

They  were  in  the  living-room  and  Mick  entered 
as  she  spoke,  and  greeted  his  relative  courteously 
enough. 

"What 's  the  name  of  the  book  you  're  writing 
now?"  Muriel  demanded  of  her  husband. 

"Pagan  People'1  he  said  shortly  after  a  moment's 
hesitation. 

"What  people!"  broke  in  Miss  Dalton.  "You 
do  not  mean  anything  anti-Church,  I  suppose? 
That  would  be  too  frightful.  Never  forget  you 
have^married  a  clergyman's  daughter,  Michael!" 

I'  m  not  likely  to,"  he  retorted. 
"  I  am  glad  to  hear  that.    Does  the  hero  marry 
the  heroine?" 

"There  is  n't  a  heroine,"  he  returned  desperately. 


Jarring  Elements  115 

"It 's  just  pieces  of  vagrant  life,  bits  of  my  own 
experiences,  things  I  am  doing  for  my  own  pleasure 
as  much  as  anything  else." 

"Do  you  consider  you  have  a  right  to  waste 
your  time  on  your  own  pleasure  now  you  are  a 
married  man?  Is  n't  it  your  duty  and  your  busi- 
ness to  write  for  profit?" 

Mick  rubbed  his  chin  without  answering.  He 
was  thinking  what  dreadful  people  his  wife  's  re- 
lations were,  and  yet  they  were  so  eminently  suited 
to  his  wife.  One  could  not,  indeed,  "place"  her 
with  any  other. 

"Sometimes  pleasure  and  profit  are  combined," 
he  said,  at  length,  ere  making  his  escape.  Two 
intolerable  women  to  be  borne  with  now! 

Miss  Dalton  frowned.  "I  was  afraid  of  it, 
Muriel,  but  we  must  hope  for  the  best,  and  of 
course  you  must  make  him  change  the  title.  That 
would  never  sell  a  book,  and  only  put  nice  people 
off  it.  Have  you  read  The  Only  Man  She  Ever 
Loved  ?  That  's  the  sort  of  title  I  mean :  it  shows 
people  at  once  what  to  expect. " 

"There  was  one  on  the  station,  called  The 
Doubtful  Duchess,  by  a  society  duchess,"  said 
Muriel  slowly.  "That  sort  of  title  tells  too. 
Everybody  was  buying  it." 

"Ah  .  .  .  !"  said  Miss  Dalton,  and  bent  over 
her  knitting. 

"I  suppose  from  what  one  sees  in  the  papers,  it 
is  rather  ..."  went  on  the  younger  woman. 
* '  How  it  has  sold !  Mick  says  nice-minded  women 


n6  Vagabond  City 

buy  that  sort  of  books  to  take   to  bed   with 
,1       »» 

'  Miss  Dalton  dropped  a  stitch.  "I  do  not  like 
your  husband's  ideas:  please  do  not  quote  him  to 
me.  When  he  's  a  famous  author— #  he  ever  is— 
that  sort  of  thing  may  be  thought  smart.  I 
consider  it  rude.  From  all  accounts  the  book  is 
outrageous,  especially  in  parts  ..."  (She  had 
every  right  to  say  so,  having  read  these  selfsame 
"parts"  several  times.)  "Some  people  think  it 
funny,  I  suppose.  Of  course  Society  is  rotten  and 
like  that.  Anyway,  the  writer  being  who  she  is, 
would  know.  I  suppose  the  'Doubtful  Duchess' 
is  herself." 

"There 's  a  fourth  edition  advertised  in  to-day's 
paper,"  said  Muriel. 

"Then  of  course  it  must  be  good — of  its  kind," 
said  Miss  Dalton,  struggling  with  her  knitting.  ' '  O 
dear,  here 's  Mick  again;  what  does  he  want  now?  " 
He  wanted  the  newspaper — and  he,  too,  ran  his 
eye  down  the  list  of  publishers'  advertisements  and 
looked  relieved.  He  wanted  to  commit  an  extrava- 
gance— and  believed  himself  justified. 

He  flung  the  paper  impatiently  from  him,  hating 
his  own  facile  success,  and  sighed  dispiritedly,  as 
he  gazed  out  into  the  space  of  moorland,  forgetting 
the  very  existence  of  the  two  women  whose  eyes 
were  fastened  on  his  gloomy  face.  He  was  not 
smiling  or  jesting  now :  he  was  just  craving  fiercely, 
desperately,  for  the  girl  he  had  named  the  Elf,  and 
for  freedom. 


Jarring  Elements  117 

"We  are  made  men  and  women,  and  then  pun- 
ished because  we  don't  act  like  angels,"  he  mut- 
tered resentfully  to  himself.  "And  it  is  not  even 
logic." 

He  stared,  with  eyes  that  saw  nothing,  at  the 
perfect  scene  before  him,  at  the  tints  of  the  distant 
trees — purple  and  crimson  and  grey  light  piercing 
the  darkness,  and  gold  sparkling  in  the  blackest 
depths.  Well,  the  golden  cup  was  empty,  but 
there  was  still  his  work,  by  which  he  did  not  mean 
anything  of  The  Doubtful  Duchess  nature.  He 
would  go  on,  though  the  savour  was  gone,  because 
it  was  worse  to  stand  still. 

Miss  Dalton's  rather  harsh  voice  broke  upon  his 
musings. 

"  I  suppose  you  have  the  artistic  temperament? " 
it  said. 

"Oh,  yes  .  .  .  yes,  just  so,"  he  answered 
absently,  bringing  himself  back  to  realities  with  an 
effort.  "The  artistic  temperament — of  course. 
Have  you  any  objection?"  He  raised  his  fierce, 
black  brows  at  her. 

"I  consider  it  your  duty  to  check  it  now  you  are 
a  married  man,"  she  said  gravely.  "A  habit 
chronically  indulged  becomes  a  vice.  You  should 
give  it  up,  before  it  is  too  late."  She  smiled  on 
him  encouragingly. 

He  stared,  then  up  went  the  corners  of  his  mouth 
and  the  room  echoed  to  his  joyous,  delightful 
laughter. 

' '  I  don't  see  anything  to  laugh  at. "    Miss  Dalton 


n8  Vagabond  City 

stiffened.  "  The  curate  said  his  sister  used  to  have 
it,  but  when  she  got  married  and  had  twins  she 
had  n't  any  time,  and  gave  it  up." 

' '  I  see. "  He  struggled  for  gravity.  ' '  Of  course 
she  would  n't  have  time.  Nobody  would. "  He 
nodded  his  head  gravely.  "The  inartistic  con- 
clusion is  only  too  horribly  inevitable.  One  just 
has  twins  and  has  n't  any  time.  May  I  offer  the 
cure  to  some  of  my  poor  afflicted  literary  friends? 
I  'm  sure  they  would  n't  consider  the  remedy  worse 
than  the  disease.  Could  I  hire  twins  myself  till  I 
was  cured?" 

"I  do  not  consider  it  a  fit  subject  for  jest!" 
Miss  Dalton's  tones  were  ominous. 

"I  quite  agree  with  you.  But  there  's  one  as- 
pect we  Ve  overlooked — that  though  the  twins 
would  certainly  cure  the  artistic  temperament,  yet 
would  the  artistic  temperament  produce  twins? 
Somehow,  I  cannot  believe  it." 

"That,  of  course,  is  not  a  subject  I  could  discuss 
with  you,"  said  Miss  Dalton,  aghast,  fearing  some 
"improper"  reference  to  the  matter. 

He  nodded  a  head  in  grave  agreement.  "It 
scarcely  bears  talking  about  at  all, "  he  said,  mak- 
ing his  escape. 

"He  will  never  be  cured,"  announced  Miss 
Dalton.  "  I  can  see  it  in  his  eyes.  How  wild  they 
are,  not  quite  gentlemanly,  either. " 

"He  will  grow  out  of  it, "  said  Muriel,  more  hope- 
fully. "And  he  has  some  really  nice  qualities. 
Please  do  not  run  him  down,  Aunt  Susan.  He 


Jarring  Elements  119 

wants  tact  and  understanding,  that  is  all.  He  is 
clever  too — in  his  way.  Of  course  he  is  not  as  re- 
fined as  I  could  wish  or  really  gentlemanly,  but 
there  's  always  something.  One  learns  that  as 
soon  as  one  is  married.  He  's  going  to  be  well  off 
and  have  a  good  position.  Of  course  he  is  too 
fond  of  nature,  but  he  will  grow  out  of  that,  too, 
and  realise  it 's  rather  common. " 

"If  you  want  to  have  nice  friends  and  a  nice 
circle,"  said  Miss  Dalton  grimly,  "you'd  better 
let  Michael  see  that  the  sooner  he  leaves  nature 
alone  the  better.  We  all  know  what  it  leads  to. 
And  it 's  always  so  disgusting!" 

In  which  sentiment  Muriel  agreed.  Nature  was 
one  of  the  things  all  refined  people  ignored. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  BLESSING  IN  DISGUISE 

IT  was  an  agreeable  surprise  to  find  that,  as  time 
went  on,  Miss  Dalton  was  to  prove  a  blessing 
in  disguise.  Muriel  had  much  more  in  common 
with  her  aunt  than  with  her  husband.  In  fact, 
the  two  ladies  were  most  companionable;  so  that 
Mick  was  left  entirely  free. 

He  could  wander,  like  the  vagabond  he  was,  all 
over  the  forest,  making  out-of-the-way  acquain- 
tances, studying  the  life  intimately,  and  writing 
Pagan  People,  which  was  gradually  absorbing  him. 
He  was  alternately  pleased  or  disgusted  with  his 
work,  as  the  mood  took  him.  If  only  there  were 
someone  he  could  talk  it  over  with!  If  only  the 
Elf's  elusive  face  had  not  flown  beyond  his  ken, 
as  such  elusive  elves  have  a  way  of  doing!  How 
often  he  went  back  to  their  odd  three  weeks'  isola- 
tion and  fast  friendship!  Where  was  she  now — 
his  fellow  vagabond? 

He  was  going  to  the  Wayne  Gallery  the  day  it 
opened,  to  see,  and,  if  possible,  buy  her  picture, 
and  find  perhaps  trace  of  her  whereabouts.  There 
would  at  least  be  no  reason  why  he  should  not 
write. 

120 


The  Blessing  in  Disguise         121 

With  the  summer  came  money  and  notoriety — 
of  a  kind — to  Michael  Talbot.  Fifty  thousand 
copies  of  The  Doubtful  Duchess,  published  at  the 
end  of  March,  had  been  sold.  He  had  made  two 
thousand  pounds  and  a  reputation  he  would  have 
been  glad  to  dispense  with.  He  was  overwhelmed 
with  offers  for  another  novel  of  the  same  stamp, 
but  declined  to  make  any  arrangements.  His 
curious  fate  had  held,  and  he  had  made  money 
almost  inadvertently,  only  to  be  ashamed  of  his 
achievement.  It  was  so  very  easy  and  so  very 
"cheap."  His  book  had  sold,  not  because  it  had 
any  literary  value,  or  was  in  the  least  true  to  life, 
but  merely  because  it  was  farcically  risque.  The 
public,  which  did  not  want  his  better  efforts, 
clamoured  for  more  "Doubtful  Duchesses,"  and 
were  prepared  to  pay  for  their  fancy.  Since  money 
must  be  his  aim  if  he  were  to  keep  his  promise 
to  Muriel,  he  almost  decided  to  carry  on  the 
double  identity.  He  knew  of  several  successful 
instances. 

In  the  meanwhile,  he  remembered  a  mining  mag- 
nate who  was  always  urging  him  to  "make  a  bit, " 
and  sent  a  hurried  scrawl  to  him  with  a  cheque 
for  fifteen  hundred  pounds,  and  an  injunction  that 
the  friend  would  "make  me  or  break  me."  His 
friend  wrote  and  said  what  shares  he  had  bought 
with  the  money  and  the  possible  result  to  be  anti- 
cipated, and  Mick  thought  no  more  about  the  matr 
ter  till  a  cheque  for  six  thousand  pounds  reached 
him.  This  money  Mick  actually  invested  in 


122  Vagabond  City 

sound  securities,  feeling  horribly  depressed  with 
the  weight  of  his  sanity.  Of  course  he  knew  he 
ought  to  tell  Muriel  of  his  good  fortune,  if  not 
exactly  how  he  had  achieved  it,  but  he  hesitated. 
She  would  select  the  desirable  suburb,  and  the 
desirable  villa,  and  Mick  determined  to  put  off 
that  evil  day  as  long  as  possible.  He  had  grown 
to  care  for  the  forest,  to  find  a  wild  wandering 
existence  possible  there ;  and  the  future,  as  mapped 
out  by  Muriel,  assumed  more  and  more  fearful  pro- 
portions. He  would  put  off  the  evil  day  a  little 
longer :  it  was  not  really  wronging  her,  for  it  would 
mean  more  money  in  the  end. 

He  did,  however,  tell  her  that  he  had  been 
"lucky  in  a  speculation  advised  by  a  safe  friend, " 
and  that  by  the  end  of  the  year  she  might  be  able 
to  realise  her  heart's  desire,  and  start  really  com- 
fortably. And  he  handed  her  a  valuable  diamond 
pendant. 

Miss  Dalton  at  once  told  the  young  wife  what 
the  habit  of  speculation  led  to,  and  what  she 
would  have  to  expect  in  the  barren  future. 

"They  always  get  into  the  workhouse  or — the 
dock, "  she  said. 

"But  sometimes  into  Society,"  said  the  more 
optimistic  Muriel.  "If  Mick  makes  money  like 
this,  and  so  easily,  he  '11  be  able  to  invest  it  and 
have  an  income!  It  may  mean  Wimbledon  or 
Kensington. " 

"Or  destitution,"  added  Miss  Dalton,  grimly. 
"How  can  he  make  a  fortune  without  capital, 


The  Blessing  in  Disguise         123 

without  embezzling?  Then  he  's  so  eccentric  and 
erratic — he  'd  be  sure  to  be  found  out!" 

"Uncle  William  started  without  capital — and 
look  where  he  is  now!" 

"That  is  different.  Dear  William  is  a  financial 
genius — Michael  an  author,  and  they  never  have 
any  business  instincts.  They  would  n't  be  authors 
if  they  had.  And  William  had  saved  a  little  capi- 
tal, and  married  more.  Jane  would  never  have 
been  Mrs.  Higgins  but  for  that — or  Mrs.  any- 
thing!" And  Miss  Dalton's  lips  closed  rather  un- 
pleasantly. She  had  admired  her  brother's 
brother-in-law  herself,  but  her  modest  fortune  had 
been  insufficient.  The  honour  she  had  achieved 
seemed  almost  wasted  on  Jane  Higgins,  who  scarce- 
ly appeared  to  realise  her  great  luck.  But  then, 
"poor  Jane"  was  rather  stupid — William  himself 
had  indulgently  hinted  as  much.  To  Mr.  Higgins 
all  women  were  more  or  less  stupid:  the  very  fact 
of  their  being  women  proved  it. 

It  is  to  be  feared  Mick  got  rather  more  amuse- 
ment than  was  kind  or  chivalrous  out  of  Miss 
Dalton  and  Mrs.  Hobbs.  For  the  latter,  however, 
he  retained  a  wholesome  awe:  if  he  offended  her, 
he  lost  perfectly  cooked  meals,  and  though  not  a 
sybarite,  that  sort  of  thing  counted  with  Michael 
Talbot  so  long  as  he  had  to  endure  civilisation. 
In  the  wilds  he  could  live  contentedly  on  any- 
thing or  practically  nothing,  but  marriage,  and 
Muriel,  required  compensating  circumstances.  He 
thought  of  Miss  Dalton  in  the  light  of  a  farcical 


124  Vagabond  City 

character.  No  one  could  caricature  her:  she  was 
already  a  caricature.  Neither  could  they  exag- 
gerate, for  nature  had  exaggerated  so  broadly  in 
making  her,  no  further  invention  was  required. 
She  was  a  type,  more  than  an  individual.  Often, 
she  provided  the  humour  of  situations  otherwise 
intolerable,  and  one  day  she  did  more  than  this, 
she  became  a  screaming  and  vulgar  farce. 

The  women  were  out,  had  gone  for  a  leisurely 
bicycle  ride,  and  Mick  was  busy  writing  alone  in 
the  cottage,  when  he  was  disturbed  by  Muriel, 
white  and  terrified,  dashing  up  to  him. 

"Mick!  She  's  stuck  in  a  bog— be  quick!"  she 
gasped,  panting. 

"Well,  what  did  you  take  her  for?"  demanded 
Mick,  looking  unwillingly  up  from  his  work. 
"She  's  been  nothing  but  an  expense  and  an  an- 
noyance from  the  day  she  came." 

"But  she  '11  die " 

1 '  Serve  her  right !  Why  could  n't  she  die  quietly 
to  start  with!  She  's  for  ever  in  mischief.  Still, 
five  pounds  is  five  pounds,  these  money-grasping 
days!"  He  rose,  still  grumbling,  to  his  feet. 

"It 's  Aunt  Susan!"  screamed  Muriel. 

He  sat  down  again  with  a  distinct  air  of  relief, 
and  took  up  his  pen. 

"I  thought  you  meant  Esmerelda.  Tell  her 
to  walk  out  of  the  bog  and  not  play  the  heroine- 
rescued-by-the-handsome-hero-act — because  there 
are  n't  any,  except  Harrison  of  the  pig  farm,  and 
even  his  admiration  is  vague." 


The  Blessing  in  Disguise         125 

He  did  not  know  of  any  bog  in  the  direction 
they  had  taken,  nor  for  a  moment  believe  Miss 
Dalton  to  be  in  any  danger,  and  he  was  in  the 
midst  of  an  absorbing  chapter. 

"She  was  over  her  boots  in  a  moment!"  cried 
Muriel,  pulling  at  his  arm. 

''Then  let  her  take  them  off." 

"And  up  to  her  waist  when  I  left, "  screamed  the 
young  wife,  wringing  her  hands.  "Oh,  why 
won't  you  understand?  She  's  dying  by  inches — 
inches!" 

"What!"  he  gasped,  his  consternation  and  con- 
cern genuine  enough.  "Good  God,  Muriel,  why 
did  n't  you  tell  me  at  once  instead  of  wasting 
valuable  time  like  this!" 

He  dashed  into  the  back-kitchen  while  he  spoke, 
giving  Muriel  no  time  for  the  obvious  retort,  and 
came  out  with  his  bicycle  and  the  clothes  line.  "Go 
on  ahead  and  show  me  the  way,"  he  said  curtly. 

On  a  wild  portion  of  the  moor,  in  a  genuine  bog 
enough  as  far  as  one  could  see,  sunk  to  the  waist 
he  had  cruelly  declared  non-existent,  Mick  saw 
the  short  fat  form  of  Miss  Dalton. 

Poor  lady,  that  at  such  a  moment  she  must  look 
comic  rather  than  tragic!  That  Mick  should  want 
to  laugh  even  now! 

Esmerelda,  who  accompanied  them  valiantly 
on  their  short  slow-paced  rides,  was  seated  on  firm 
ground  not  far  from  the  victim,  watching  her  with 
a  disapproving  eye.  "Whatever  are  you  doing 
that  for?"  she  seemed  to  say  plainly  as  ever  pig 


126  Vagabond  City 

spoke.     "Don't  you  know  it  's  very  unladylike 
and  is  n't  'done'  in  the  best  circles?" 

But  Miss  Dalton  went  on  doing  it  all  the  same. 

"Hi!"  cried  Mick  sharply,  "hi — you!"  and  he 
struck  the  animal  sharply  with  the  end  of  the  rope. 
"Get  along  you  beast!" 

"Oh,  you  '11  get  her  bogged,  too!"  wailed  Muriel, 
clinging  to  him  and  hindering  his  efforts. 

"She  's  too  jolly  selfish  to  let  me!  I  'm  going 
to  drive  her  in  front  to  test  the  ground;  she  '11 
pick  her  way  clear,  will  Esmerelda!" 

Furious  and  protesting,  the  pig  was  forced  to- 
wards the  danger  zone. 

"It 's  all  right,"  cried  Mick,  relieved,  as  he  let 
the  squealing  animal  fly  back  to  safety  and  Muriel. 
"The  bog  is  only  a  couple  of  yards  in  circumference 
— we  '11  soon  have  her  out!" 

He  flung  a  looped  end  of  rope  to  the  gasping  Miss 
Dalton.  "Put  it  under  your  arms,"  he  com- 
manded, "hold  fast,  and — look  out!" 

"Oh,  Mick,  you  '11  lasso  her!"  shrieked  Muriel. 
"She  '11  be  hung  if  it  gets  round  her  neck!" 

How  is  it  going  to  get  round  her  neck?  There, 
it 's  under  her  arms.  Now  stand  clear,  I  'm  going 
to  pull  her  out.  I  daresay  it  '11  mean  a  bit  of  a 
tug. "  He  prepared  to  exert  all  his  strength.  His 
experiences  had  been  many,  but  he  had  never 
rescued  a  bogged  person  before. 
^  The  weeping  Muriel  stood  clear,  and  Mick,  set- 
ting his  feet  against  a  mound,  pulled  with  all  his 
vast  strength.  He  was  ready  to  admit  afterwards 


The  Blessing  in  Disguise         127 

that  perhaps  less  strength  might  have  sufficed — 
that  he  might  have  saved  Miss  Dalton's  dignity 
as  well  as  Miss  Dalton.  However,  he  meant  well 
and  he  saved  the  victim  from  death.  She  came 
out  of  danger  without  any  hesitation  whatsoever: 
made  unseemly  haste  over  it.  There  was  a  suck- 
ing sound,  the  rending  of  a  garment,  and  she  shot 
as  if  from  a  catapult  towards  her  rescuer — face 
downwards  across  the  bog. 

Mick  gave  one  glance  at  the  rescued,  then 
dropped  the  rope  and  fell  helplessly  against 
Muriel.  "I  told  you,"  he  said  triumphantly, 
"that  Aunt  Susan  was  a  funny  shape!  And 
she  is  I" 

The  unhappy  lady  had  left  her  skirt  behind  her 
as  the  price  of  liberty,  and  lay  revealed,  black,  but 
far  from  comely,  in  very  tight  cycling  knickers. 

"Hush — she'll  hear!  Oh,  Mick,  how  awfully 
unfortunate.  She'll  be  so  dreadfully  angry!" 

"Angry — when  I  've  saved  her  life!  I  thought 
she  'd  give  me  a  thousand-pound  note  or  motor-car 
at  the  least.  Won't  she  even  give  me  her  blessing? " 

"You  should  not  have  pulled  so  hard — you 
always  overdo  everything!" 

"  I  did  n't  mean  to  exaggerate  so  much, "  he  said 
humbly,  "but  if  I  had  n't  pulled  at  all  it  would  be 
worse — worse  for  her,  I  mean.  You  'd  be  a  lady 
with  a  private  income — and  without  funeral  ex- 
penses." 

"You  are  perfectly  sickening — and  she 's  getting 
up." 


I28  Vagabond  City 

"Then  she  can  thank  me  some  other  time, "  said 
Mick  hastily,  and  making  a  dash  for  his  bicycle, 
disappeared. 

The  climax  of  the  comic  situation  had  passed : 
it  was  time  for  the  curtain  to  go  down  to  loud 
laughter.  How  it  would  amuse  .  .  .  the  gallery ! 

Miss  Dalton,  black  from  head  to  feet  with  oily 
mud,  came  shrinkingly  forward. 

"Oh,  I  know  what  Eve  felt  like  now!"  she  said, 
beginning  to  cry. 

"But  there  isn't  any  Adam,"  said  Muriel  con- 
solingly. 

"Nor  any  fig-leaves,"  retorted  Miss  Dalton. 
"Eve  made  a  proper  dress  at  once,  but  what  I  'm 
to  do  to  get  home  I  can't  think!  And  across  the 
moors  too — so  conspicuous!" 

"But  lonely,"  hastily  interposed  the  younger 
woman.  "One  hardly  ever  meets  a  soul." 

"Hardly  ever  is  n't  never,"  was  the  sharp  reply, 
"  and  there  are  always  wretched  tourists  on  bicycles 
popping  up  when  you  least  expect  them ! "  Morti- 
fied tears  made  two  clean  channels  down  the  un- 
happy lady's  grimed  face.  "They  will  think  I  'm 
a  harem-skirt  woman  or  some  dreadfully  unsexed 
creature,  not  a  real  lady  at  all!  He  nearly  pulled 
me  in  two  ...  I  always  knew  he  was  a  brute 
...  a  man  with  eyes  like  that,  and  such  a 
mouth!  I  thought  I  heard  him  laugh  too. " 

"Oh,  no — not  laugh,11  lied  Muriel  hurriedly. 
"You  know  he  would  never  do  that.  Aunt  Susan 
.  .  .  and  he  saved  your  life. " 


The  Blessing  in  Disguise         129 

"In  a  way  to  make  me  publicly  ridiculous  and 
indecent!  If  there  were  policemen  in  the  Forest 
I  suppose  I  should  get  taken  up :  then  it  would  be 
in  the  papers  and  your  father  would  see  it.  '  Cler- 
gyman's sister  and  daughter  fined  for  indecency, ' 
or  something  like  that — big  letters  so  that  people 
didn't  miss  it!  I  shall  never  be  able  to  hold  up 
my  head  again.  Look  at  me,  I  say  look  at  me, " 
her  voice  rose  hysterically,  "and  tell  me  how  I  'm 
to  get  home  without  open  disgrace,  if  you  can!" 

Muriel,  looking  at  the  open  stretch  of  moors 
around  them,  felt  the  problem  was  beyond  her,  but 
timidly  pointed  out  a  bush  in  the  distance  which, 
though  adequate  enough  shelter  for  a  rabbit,  could 
prove  of  little  advantage  to  Miss  Dalton.  "Could 
you  hide  behind  that  till  I  rode  home  and  brought 
back  a  skirt?" 

"You  know  I  couldn't,  not  even  a  child  could. 
I  dare  not  stay  here  alone  while  you  fetch  a  skirt. 
I  should  die  I  I  almost  wish  he  'd  left  me  to  my 
fate.  I  should  have  died  like  a  respectable  woman 
at  any  rate !  He  is  abominable — abominable ! ' ' 

She  wept  afresh. 

"We  must  make  a  dash  for  it,"  said  Muriel, 
with  more  confidence  than  she  felt. 

"And  meet  that  Harrison  man  who  wouldn't 
have  the  manners  not  to  see  me !  You  know  that 
he  's  already  inclined  to  be  familiar  ...  if  he 
were  to  see  me  like  this " 

"Where  's  Esmerelda?"  demanded  Muriel  sud- 
denly, remembering  that  it  was  some  time  since 


130  Vagabond  City 

she  had  caught  sight  of  that  valued  pet.  "Oh, 
I  wish  she  would  n't  follow  us  as  she  does.  I  'm 
sure  it  isn't  safe!" 

"She  started  off  home  almost  as  soon  as  I  was 
pulled  out,"  returned  Miss  Dalton  shortly.  "I 
think  she  felt  the  disgrace  too:  she  had  a  most 
peculiar  expression." 

"Oh,  no,  Aunt  Susan,  how  can  you  fancy  such  a 
thing!  It 's  her  dinner-time,  and  you  know  she 
never  misses." 

"Her  dinner-time!  Then  we  are  bound  to  meet 
Harrison!  There  .  .  .  there's  somebody  coming 
now.  It  is  Harrison!" 

The  panic-stricken  Miss  Dalton  tried  to  conceal 
herself  behind  a  sapling  that  was  little  better  than 
a  twig,  and  inadequate  even  for  a  sylph.  She 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  Perhaps  he  would 
nor  recognise  her,  and  at  least  she  was  not  able  to 
see  him.  She  endured  a  martyrdom. 

She  heard  a  great  bellow  as  Harrison  passed  on 
his  way,  and  felt  he  was  looking  back.  It  was  the 
last  straw. 

"0  dear,  here's  Mick!"  cried  Muriel,  aghast, 
thinking  how  stupid  it  was  of  him  to  return. 

Miss  Dalton  took  her  hands  away  from  her 
face  and  indignation  straightened  out  her  shrinking 
form.  "Coming  to  gloat,"  she  snapped.  "I 
knew  it!" 

Mick,  keeping  his  eyes  averted  from  the  lady 
in  distress,  and  yet  somehow  seeing  the  absurd 
figure,  beckoned  to  his  wife,  and  handed  her  a 


The  Blessing  in  Disguise         131 

parcel.     "A  skirt,"  he  explained   briefly,  before 
riding  off  again. 

"Oh,  Aunt  Susan,  he  's  brought  you  a  skirt  to 
go  home  in!"  announced  the  relieved  Muriel. 
"Now  you  won't  be  horrid  about  him  anymore, 
will  you?  You  see  he  thought  of  it  all  himself." 

Miss  Dalton  was  not  sure  whether  it  was  "nice- 
minded"  of  Mick  to  think  of  her  deficiency  or  not. 
"Which  skirt?"  was  all  she  said,  adding  wither- 
ingly,  "How  like  a  man!"  as  her  best  evening 
skirt  met  her  eyes.  However  she  donned  it — to 
its  entire  ruin — without  hesitation  and  rode 
quickly  home.  They  did  not  meet  a  soul.  Prob- 
ably she  would  have  been  more  grateful  to  Mick 
if  she  had  done  so;  as  it  was,  the  satin  skirt  was 
ruined  for  nothing. 

When  they  got  back  to  the  cottage,  Mick  had 
wisely  disappeared,  and  did  not  return  till  the 
evening  meal.  Esmerelda  was  there,  very  angry 
at  being  kept  waiting  for  her  dinner,  and  very 
much  shocked  at  the  conduct  of  Miss  Dalton. 
Her  attitude  seemed  to  express  a  determination  to 
have  no  further  respect  for  that  lady,  and  Muriel 
hustled  her  into  the  back-kitchen  before  Miss  Dal- 
ton should  understand,  and  take  a  dislike  to  her. 

When  Mick  did  appear,  he  was  treated  with  icy 
distance  by  the  lady  whose  life  he  had  saved  at  the 
cost  of  her  decency,  and  best  skirt.  She  wore  a 
long  trailing  skirt,  and  yet  the  man's  evil  mind, 
could  only  see  her  without  any  at  all,  slithering 
face  downwards  across  the  bog. 


132  Vagabond  City 

The  unfortunate  guest  seemed  fated  to  partici- 
pate in  yet  another  broad  farce,  for  it  was  only  a 
few  days  after  the  adventure  of  the  bog,  that  some- 
thing happened  to  place  Mick  in  her  bad  books 
for  good  and  all. 

It  was  the  young  man's  habit  to  rise  very  early, 
and  have  a  long  ramble  before  breakfast.  Then  he 
would  return  very  hungry  and  silent,  and  Muriel 
would  wonder  how  it  was  she  never  could  keep 
down  the  bacon  bill,  though  they  had  pigs  to  the 
right  of  them,  pigs  to  the  left  of  them,  and  Esmer- 
elda  within  their  doors. 

On  this  special  morning  he  was  met  by  Muriel 
at  the  door,  and  he  saw  at  once  that  something 
of  a  disastrous  nature  had  happened. 

"Have  you  seen  Aunt  Susan's  teeth?"  she  en- 
quired before  he  could  speak. 

"Seen  them!    Who  could  miss  them!    Why?" 

"I  mean  have  you  seen  them  anywhere  about?" 

Mick  put  a  quick  hand  to  his  mouth,  but  not 
before  a  shout  of  laughter  had  penetrated  to 
the  chamber  of  a  very  angry  and  suspicious 
lady. 

"Now  she'll  think  it's  you! "  wailed  Muriel. 
"Oh,  Mick,  why  will  you  always  laugh  at  mis- 
fortunes?" 

"D'yer  mean  she'll  think  I've  got  'em?"  he 
gasped,  exploding  again. 

"Of  course  she  did  'nt  say  so,  but  she  was  very 
odd,  and  ...  Oh,  Mick,  do  stop  laughing! 
How  can  you  think  it  funny!" 


The  Blessing  in  Disguise         133 

Mick  at  once  assumed  an  air  of  supreme  gravity 
and  legal  cross-examining. 

"When  did  she  last  see  the  accused  alive?"  he 
demanded. 

"Oh,  Mick." 

"I  mean,  when  were  they  parted  in  silence  and 
tears — and  why?"  He  was  in  one  of  his  most 
foolish  moods. 

"You  never  take  anything  seriously.  You  are 
just  like  a  clown — always  performing!  It 's  no 
joke  for  Aunt  Susan." 

"Won't  she  ever  be  able  to  eat  any  more,  and 
shall  we  save  the  whole  of  the  thirty  shillings  a 
week?  Where  is  your  careful  housewifely  soul  that 
you  cannot  see  the  silver  lining?  But  perhaps 
she  '11  expect  to  be  fed  with  a  spoon?" 

"She  has  a  few  back  teeth  left, "  Muriel  observed 
thankfully. 

"Is  she  in  a  position  to ' thank  God  they  meet ' ? " 
he  asked,  giggling. 

"Oh,  how  low  and  wicked  and  horrid  you  are! 
And  you  never  help,  only  make  fun  .  .  .  !"  His 
wife  's  lips  quivered. 

He  patted  her  shoulder.  "There,  old  girl, 
never  mind.  I  '11  do  my  best  to  capture  the  miss- 
ing property,  I  will  indeed;  only  let  me  have  my 
silly  jokes — the  laughter  of  a  fool  is  sweeter  than 
the  tears  of  a  wise  man.  I  must  laugh  or  go  mad — 
madder,  Miss  Dalton  would  say.  But  about  her 
teeth.  Did  she  drop  them  outside — or  in?  I 
mean,  could  she  have  swallowed  them?" 


134  Vagabond  City 

"Of  course  not:  they  Ve  just  gone." 
"Fortunately,  I  should  recognise  the  prisoner 
anywhere,  even  in  another's  possession,  and  under 
any  alibi.  They  must  have  dropped  out  when  she 
waved  a  last  fond  adieu  to  Harrison.  If  in  the 
frenzy  of  Love's  Young  Dream  one  loses  one's 
wits — why  not  one's  teeth!" 

"Be  quiet,  she  '11  hear  you!  She  left  them  by 
her  bed  in  a  glass  of  water,  and  in  the  morning  she 
found  the  glass  empty  and  overturned  and  no 
teeth!  She  said  she  thought  she  heard  someone 
push  open  the  door  in  her  dream — you  know  it 
won't  stay  closed  properly — and  thinks  it  can't 
have  been  a  dream  after  all.  Someone  must  have 
entered  her  room,  but  who?" 

"I  know,"  said  Mick,  instantly.  "I  have  it! 
Harrison!  He  came  to  look  for  a  broken  sixpence 
to  remind  him,  and  when  he  couldn't  find  a 
broken — or  is  it  crooked? — sixpence,  lying  about, 
he  took  the  teeth.  Who  are  we  to  blame  him? 
Were  n't  we  young  once  and  romantic  ourselves?  " 
Everything 's  gone  wrong.  Esmerelda  went  out 
early  and  has  not  returned,  and  I  'm  sure  some- 
thing must  have  happened  to  her.  It 's  the  first 
time  she  's  been  late  for  a  meal.  And  now  Aunt 
Susan  's  sure  someone  's  taken  them — as  if  they 
would!'  She  eyed  her  husband  anxiously. 
"Whom  does  she  suspect?  Mrs.  Hobbs?" 
"Oh,  Mick,  she  thinks  it 's  .  .  .  you!  Of  course 
I  know  you  would  n't,  would  you?"  Again  she 
eyed  him  anxiously.  "  I  don't  know  what  to  think ! ' ' 


The  Blessing  in  Disguise         135 

"It's  certainly  a  puzzle.  Have  you  no  idea 
at  all?" 

"Oh,  I  have,  that's  the  worst  of  it,"  wailed 
Muriel.  "I'm  afraid  it's  Esmerelda!" 

"Esmerelda?" 

"You  know  how  curious  she  is,  how  she  hates 
things  kept  away  from  her,  and  must  poke  her 
nose  into  everything — the  dear!" 

"You  think  she's  poked  it,  literally,  into  the 
teeth?  My  dear  girl,  what  next?" 

"Well,  she  wanted  your  shaving-brush  yester- 
day, and  I  heard  her  move  off  the  mat  outside  my 
door  very  early.  She  must  have  gone  and  seen  the 
teeth  and  taken  them  away. " 

"Don't  you  think  you  give  her  credit  for  too 
much  human  mischief?  After  all,  she  is  only  a 

Pig." 

"But  not  an  ordinary  pig,  you  've  had  to  acknow- 
ledge that  yourself.  I  would  n't  for  the  world  she 
was  blamed." 

"Better  me,  eh?" 

"You  know  she  can't  think  any  worse  of  you,  and 
you  were  very  rough  with  the  rope.  .  .  .  Good 
gracious!  what's  that?" 

For  upon  the  air  was  borne  the  sound  of  shrill 
squealing  rapidly  coming  nearer,  and  a  moment 
later,  Esmerelda  herself,  frantic  and  screaming, 
tore  into  the  cottage  and  lifted  anguished  imploring 
eyes  to  Muriel.  The  missing  teeth  were  hanging 
from  her  snout  where  they  had  attached  themselves 
— rather  painfully — by  gold  hooks. 


136  Vagabond  City 

Esmerelda  would  rather  have  been  ringed  any 
day,  though  such  experiences  did  not  befall  her 
forest  friends. 

"The  vanity  of  woman!"  gibed  Mick,  as  he 
released  the  victim.  "Yet  I  believed  you  content 
to  suffer  to  be  beautiful.  I  have  long  suspected 
you  of  being  no  true  woman,  Esmerelda.  .  .  !" 
He  laughed  gaily. 

As  he  stood  with  the  teeth  in  his  hand,  a  broad 
grin  on  his  face,  the  door  opened,  and  Miss  Dalton, 
a  shawl  over  her  mouth,  entered,  majestical  and 
full  of  outraged  dignity. 

"As  I  supposed, "  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  would 
have  been  terrible  had  not  its  effectiveness  been 
lost  through  an  indistinct  mumble.  "Is  it  too 
much  to  ask,  that  when  you  have  quite  finished 
your  amusement,  I  may  be  favoured  with  the 
return  of  my  stolen  property?" 

"I  assure  you  it  was  n't  me.  It  was — "  he  be- 
gan quickly,  but  he  stopped  as  Muriel,  having 
wiped  Esmerelda's  bloody  snout,  looked  up  im- 
ploringly. Miss  Dalton  turned  her  back,  there 
came  a  little  click,  then  she  wheeled  round,  and 
there  was  that  on  her  face  which  should  have  made 
the  guilty  tremble. 

"Why  not  accuse  Esmerelda?"  she  suggested 
sarcastically. 

"I  was  just  going  to!" 

"Liar!"  burst  from  Miss  Dalton  ere  she 
subsided  into  floods  of  tears. 

Breakfast  was  scarcely  a  congenial  meal.    Es- 


The  Blessing  in  Disguise         137 

merelda  had  much  the  best  of  it,  being  fed  and 
petted  by  the  two  ladies,  one  on  account  of  the 
pain  she  had  suffered,  the  other  because  of  the 
base  aspersion  cast  upon  her  character. 

Harrison  interrupted  the  meal  to  leave  a  parcel 
he  had  brought  from  the  station.  He  turned  his 
eyes  quickly  from  Miss  Dalton  for  he  remembered 
her  as  she  had  appeared  behind  the  sapling  shoot. 

"He's  gettin'  a  fat  'un, "  he  said  considering 
Esmerelda.  "Fourpence  a  pound  any  day  you 
like,  Mr.  Talbot!" 

"Be  silent,  man!"  commanded  Miss  Dalton. 

"Do  you  mean  Esmerelda  is  a  'he'?"  gasped 
Muriel  dismayed.  "Then  we  Ve  christened  her — • 
him — all  wrong." 

"You  have  that!"  agreed  Harrison  with  a  very 
broad  grin. 

"Oh,  Mick,  what  a  tiresome  mistake!" 

Then  the  speaker  caught  a  wink  exchanged 
between  the  two  men,  and  stiffened  at  once.  "I 
believe  you  knew  and  did  it  on  purpose!" 

"You  wouldn't  let  me  call  him  William;  you 
wanted  something  like  '  Maggie. '  What  could  I 
do?" 

Harrison  after  a  long  stealthy  glance  at  Miss 
Dalton  fled  suddenly,  chuckling  hoarsely  as  he 
went. 

"That  man  ought  to  be  reported  for  disrespect ! " 
said  Miss  Dalton,  scarlet.  "But  of  course,  your 
friends  ..."  turning  to  Mick  with  incoherent 
rage. 


138  Vagabond  City 

"He  tells  me  things  about  pigs  I  didn't  know 
before,"  said  Mick  apologetically. 

"Things  no  nice-minded  person  would  want  to 
know,  I  expect!"  snorted  Miss  Dalton. 

"How  can  I  change  Esmerelda  now?"  wailed 
Muriel.  "It  suited  her  and  she  liked  it  from 
the  first!  Oh,  Mick,  you  might  have  been  more 
careful.  And  to  think  she  's  a  '  he !'  ' 

"Well,  at  any  rate,  my  awful  visions  of  finding 
ten  little  pigs  or  so  knocking  about,  the  offspring 
of  Esmerelda  seeking  to  repay  us  for  her  keep,  in 
the  only  way  she  could  think  of,  is  not  to  be 
feared  any  longer.  Mrs.  Hobbs  would  disastrously 
seek  to  prove  them  an  illusion.  I  'm  awfully  glad 
it 's  a  Mister  myself." 

"You're  a  coarse-minded  person,"  announced 
Miss  Dalton,  rising  and  leaving  the  room. 

Oh,  Mick,  why  must  you  say  such  things !  Be 
so  careless!"  complained  his  wife.  "She  will 
never  get  to  like  you  now!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  PAST  UNVEILED 

"Oh,  my  noble  lords  and  ladies, 
Jesting,  jesting  is  n't  a  joke!" 

When  Knights  Were  Bold. 

"You  tore  aside  the  veil,  a  dreadful  gleam, 
Revealed  the  sights  you  had  not  feared  to  see, 
And  a  great  darkness  fell  upon  the  shrine. " 

MAURICE  BARING. 

HTHREE  times  had  Mick  attempted  the  more  or 
1  less  timely  jest,  and  three  times  had  he  met 
with  severe  reproof,  once  from  his  wife,  and  twice 
from  her  aunt.  The  third  time  he  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  strode  out  across  the  moors  up  to 
Bramble  Hill  from  whence  he  could  look  down  on  a 
vast  sea  of  woods  and  Isle  of  Wight  hills,  and  know 
that  beyond  them  lay  the  sea  and  out-going  ships. 
His  eyes  took  a  far-away  look;  he  seemed  to  be 
looking  into  the  vast  spaces  of  the  world,  to  be 
listening  to  the  song  of  Vagabondia,  and  he  forgot 
that  he  must  stop  his  ears  to  the  call  of  his  desire. 
Up  flashed  the  phantasmagoria  before  his  tor- 
mented eyes,  the  prairie,  the  desert,  vast  seas,  and 

139 


140  Vagabond  City 

the  strange  cities  of  strange  men.  ...  It  was 
the  Beloved  holding  out  longing,  aching  arms,  and 
though  his  whole  being  cried  out  to  her,  he  must 
turn  aside.  It  was  duty  hand  in  hand  with  Hell : 
it  was  death  in  life — bread  within  sight  but  not 
reach  of  a  starving,  bound  man!  It  was  all  the 
tortures  of  all  the  ages! 

Oh,  those  ten  years  and  their  harvest  of  magic 
memories !  Ten  glorious  years  when  his  feet  seemed 
Perseus-bound  and  men  called  him  Ulysses,  not 
all  in  jest  .  .  .  dead  years  now.  Never  again, 
never  again,  for  there  was  Muriel:  he  was  bound  to 
her  and  she  to  him,  and  the  galling  chains  must 
be  borne  to  the  end.  Holy  matrimony ! 

A  flash  of  anguish  passed  across  his  face  as  Gore's 
laughing,  blue  eyes  looked  suddenly  into  his.  Gore 
the  perfect  man-comrade  who  had  brought  him 
devotion  and  laughter  and  life,  but  to  whom  he  had 
brought  a  darker  gift.  A  great  sable  finger,  like  the 
shadow  of  death,  pressed  for  a  moment  on  his 
eyelids  and  he  grew  deadly  cold  in  the  sunshine. 
Then  it  had  passed,  claimed  that  other  victim;  and 
only  the  unbearable  memory  was  left. 

Once  at  a  camp-fire,  an  old  weird  man,  that  most 
held  mad,  grey  with  years  of  suffering,  full  of 
strange  stories  and  stranger  superstitions,  spoke 
of  one  whose  love  had  brought  misfortune  on  all  he 
held  dear,  and  as  he  listened  to  the  terrible  story 
Mick's  heart  had  been  shaken  with  ghastly  fear. 
Was  he  such  a  one  as  this?  Were  such  things 
possible?  Then  Le  had  assured  himself  passion- 


The  Past  Unveiled  141 

ately  it  was  but  an  idle  tale,  a  foolish  superstition: 
that  even  if  such  things  were,  no  such  devil's  curse 
lay  on  him.  His  own  experience  had  been  strange, 
had  shaken  him  for  the  moment,  but  what  was  it 
but  coincidence  upon  coincidence?  Many  had 
loved  him,  though  his  love  had  been  given  to  few. 
But  those  few  were  dead,  and  recklessly  unseeing, 
it  was  he  who  had  shown  them  the  road.  .  .  .  Still 
it  was  so  little  put  into  words :  just  the  faithful  dog 
of  his  boyhood,  a  gallant  horse — and  Gore.  .  .  . 
The  old  man  had  been  undoubtedly  mad,  but  it 
was  madder  still  to  dwell  on  such  imaginary 
curses. 

Mick  had  been  a  reckless,  sullen  boy,  whose 
lonely  heart  was  open  to  one  thing,  the  love  of  a 
mongrel  rescued  by  him  from  the  streets;  it  had 
looked  on  him  as  providence  for  nine  years,  and 
together  they  had  taken  their  long  tireless 
rambles.  Then  had  come  that  day — by  an  un- 
known shore — when  the  dog,  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life,  refused,  his  eyes  piteous,  to  swim 
for  his  master's  stick.  The  boy,  no  more 
than  the  man,  would  brook  opposition,  and  the 
dog  though  he  seemed  to  know  his  master  was  or- 
dering him  to  death  for  a  whim,  obeyed  the  second 
command.  There  was  a  look  almost  of  an  attempt 
at  puzzled  comprehension,  certainly  so  it  after- 
wards seemed  to  Mick,  of  farewell,  then  in  a  little 
while  the  tide  brought  the  body  out  of  the  treacher- 
ous current,  and  the  eyes  were  puzzled  still.  .  .  . 
Mick  had  said  nothing,  showed  no  outward  sign 


142  Vagabond  City 

of  sorrow,  but  he  had  almost  broken  his  heart  over 
the  first  tragedy  of  his  life — for  tragedy  it  had  been 
to  him — and  the  old  wound  throbbed  now  at  the 
memory.  He  had  never  had  another  dog. 

Then  years  later  came  the  veldt  pony ;  that  had 
been  bad,  but  not  as  bad.  Such  a  willing  little 
beast,  such  a  good  jumper,  till  the  day  he  refused  a 
long  narrow  gap !  He  had  jumped  a  wider  chasm 
many  a  time,  but  he  would  not  jump  this — till 
spurred  to  it !  Then  he  jumped  bravely  enough — 
into  a  hidden  hole  on  the  other  side.  Mick  had 
escaped  lightly  enough,  but  not  so  the  horse,  whom 
he  had  shot. 

The  dog  and  the  horse  he  could  forget;  but  he 
could  not  forget  young  Gore. 

They  had  met  in  Cairo,  the  lad  in  charge  of  a 
tutor,  whom  his  high  spirits  found  somewhat  of  a 
trial.  The  man  had  been  chosen  for  him  by  elderly 
anxious  parents — for  the  boy  of  twenty  had  for 
mother,  a  woman  of  sixty-five,  and  his  father  was 
over  seventy.  The  child  had  come  like  a  miracu- 
lous gift  after  twenty-five  years  of  married  life, 
saving  the  estate  from  a  distant  and  profligate 
branch.  From  the  first  the  elderly  couple  had 
idolised  the  boy,  though  they  had  never  spoiled 
him.  The  village  bells  had  rung  for  a  week  at  his 
birth,  old  Gore  had  seen  to  that;  but  no  one  had 
laughed.  There  was  no  handsomer  baby  in  the 
county  than  young  Gore,  by  which  name  he  was 
known,  even  in  his  infancy. 

After  Oxford,  the  old  people  gave  him  one  out  of 


The  Past  Unveiled  143 

the  precious  years  of  their  lives  to  see  the  world ;  he 
was  to  return  for  his  coming  of  age  and  the  be- 
ginning of  his  parliamentary  career.  He  was  a 
clever,  even  brilliant  boy,  and  great  things  were 
expected  of  him.  It  is  possible  that  he  might  have 
achieved  them  all — if  he  had  not  met  Michael 
Talbot  and  come  under  his  fatal  fascination. 

Mick  was  going  into  the  desert,  and  Gore  wanted 
to  go  too,  but  the  staid  tutor  refused;  he  had  heard 
it  was  rash,  if  not  actually  dangerous,  to  go  as 
Michael  was  going.  His  disapproval  of  the  vaga- 
bond's recklessness  was  written  on  his  face  for  all 
to  see.  Then  young  Gore  dismissed  his  tutor  and 
wrote  to  tell  his  people  what  an  ideal,  mirthful 
companion  he  had  found. 

So  he  rode  into  the  desert  with  Mick,  and  at 
home  his  people  marked  off  the  crawling  days  on 
a  calendar. 

On  a  certain  date  he  would  be  back  with  them 
again,  for  he  had  promised ;  and  young  Gore  always 
kept  his  promises.  Meanwhile,  he  wrote  each 
week,  and  though  sometimes  his  letters  were  de- 
layed, they  always  got  them  in  the  end,  usually 
from  some  unheard-of  place,  and  learned  that  their 
boy  was  having  the  time  of  his  life,  and  what  "a 
ripping  chap"  Talbot  was!  As  soon  as  possible 
they  set  about  making  preparations  for  his  twenty- 
first  birthday.  And  he  would  have  been  there — if 
it  had  n't  been  for  certain  untoward  circumstances.. 

Twice  they  had  come  upon  it — that  caravan  of 
trading  Arabs  who  were  neither  friendly  nor  un- 


144  Vagabond  City 

friendly,  till  the  young  wife  of  their  old  chief  cast 
luminous  eyes  at  the  young  Englishmen.  She  was 
full  of  a  passionate  beauty,  her  lord  and  master 
dark  as  herself,  the  most  jealous  of  elderly  hus- 
bands, and  in  her  wanton  eyes  the  Englishmen 
seemed  wondrous  fair,  god-like  lovers. 

It  was  the  slim  youth  with  the  blue  eyes  and  fair 
hair  that  enchained  her  fancy  first,  and  at  whom 
she  looked  the  longer,  but  it  was  the  bold,  dark 
one  that  looked  back  at  her.  The  young  one 
passed  on  like  a  holy  prophet,  taking  no  heed. 

"The  old  chap  shan't  be  jealous  without  a  cause," 
chuckled  Michael,  who  was  not  in  the  habit  of 
declining  amorous  adventure,  or  deaf  to  the  sensu- 
ous claims  of  the  East;  and  though  young  Gore 
implored  him  to  leave  the  girl  alone,  and  prophe- 
sied disaster,  he  would  not  listen.  The  high  ideals 
of  the  lad  seemed  ridiculous,  and  were  certainly 
inconvenient. 

So  Mick  stole  from  his  camp,  and  the  girl,  by 
some  miracle  eluding  the  vigilance  of  her  sleeping 
tyrant,  stole  from  hers;  they  met  several  times,  for 
though  she  would  have  preferred  the  fair-haired, 
blue-eyed  lover,  she  turned  easily  enough  to  the 
other,  and  East  and  West  clung  together,  to  ulti- 
mate disaster. 

One  night  as  the  girl  stole  back  at  dawn,  the  old 
man  awoke;  there  were  accusations,  torture,  and — 
confession. 

Early  that  morning,  the  English  camp  was  sur- 
sounded  by  hostile  Arabs,  and  the  chief,  his  trad- 


The  Past  Unveiled  145 

ing  interpreter  by  his  side,  looked  with  fierce, 
triumphant  eyes  on  the  two  surprised,  bound  men. 

He  looked  longest,  deepest,  deadliest,  on  the 
fair  youth,  who  seemed  in  his  eyes  like  a  god,  for 
the  agonised  woman  had  spoken  but  of  "the 
Englishman." 

Then  he  waved  his  hand,  and  a  covered  litter 
was  brought  in,  and  placed  between  the  two  Eng- 
lishmen. The  curtains  were  drawn  aside,  and  the 
dead,  tortured  face  of  the  faithless  wife  showed 
horrible  in  the  pitiless  light. 

In  a  sudden  flash  the  Englishmen  realised  all, 
and  Mick  set  his  quick  brain  to  think  out  a  way  of 
escape.  He  had  been  in  tighter  places  before. 

Young  Gore  thought  of  the  unhappy  dead  girl, 
and  the  price  of  sin  that  someone  must  pay.  May- 
be he  thought,  too,  of  an  old  couple  waiting 
with  clear  faith  for  the  day  of  his  coming:  he  had 
never  failed  them  yet,  but  he  must  fail  them  now. 
He  thought  of  the  name  he  bore  and  all  it  meant, 
but  his  love  for  Michael  Talbot  rose  stronger 
than  these  things. 

Mick  was  sorry,  horribly  sorry,  yet  he  placed  half 
the  blame  with  the  girl,  who  had  been  the  seeker 
as  much  as  the  sought,  and  since  she  was  dead, 
(though  he  shuddered  at  the  manner  of  her  un- 
speakable death)  all  that  mattered  now  was  that 
he  and  young  Gore — specially  young  Gore — should 
escape. 

That  the  boy  should  be  imperilled  for  him  was 
out  of  the  question.  The  Arabs  must  understand 


146  Vagabond  City 

his  innocence  and  put  the  blame  on  the  right  shoul- 
ders. He  must  tell  them  so,  and  be  quick  about 
it.  He  did  not  like  the  way  the  old  chief  was  eye- 
ing the  lad.  He  would  explain  at  once — and  then 
make  what  fight  he  could  for  his  life.  But  young 
Gore  was  quicker;  he  beckoned  the  interpreter  and 
said  clearly,  "I,  and  I  alone,  am  guilty:  only  I 
must  pay.  Let  my  friend  go.  He  knows  nothing 
of  the  thing " 

The  words  were  being  translated  to  the  chief  even 
as  Mick  broke  out  into  passionate  denials,  swear- 
ing that  the  guilt  was  his,  and  that  his  alone  must 
be  the  payment.  And  all  the  time  young  Gore,  who 
hated  lies,  contradicted  him  clearly  and  calmly. 

The  Arabs  saw  no  beauty  in  Michael,  who  ap- 
proached their  own  type,  but  to  them  young  Gore 
was  uncannily  beautiful.  They  remembered  how 
in  passing,  the  dead  girl's  eyes  had  dwelt  on  him, 
and  him  alone — and  even  now  their  fearful  glare 
seemed  to  turn  towards  him — so  that  though  the 
guilty  man  swore  the  guilt  was  his,  and  begged 
the  life  of  the  other  offering  his  own,  he  spoke 
to  deaf  ears.  They  called  him  madman,  fool, 
and  liar,  and  drove  their  knives  into  young  Gore. 
The  lad  was  hacked  to  pieces  before  Mick's  eyes, 
his  comeliness  most  horribly  spoiled. 

Then  they  cut  Mick's  bonds  and  the  bonds  of  his 
few  servants,  enacting  no  further  vengeance,  for 
they  were  just  men,  and  rode  quickly  away,  leav- 
ing him  with  the  dead  girl  and  the  dead  man— his 
sin  and  the  fruit  thereof. 


The  Past  Unveiled  147 

He  buried  them  himself,  and  the  grave  of  one  he 
watered  with  slow,  anguished  tears.  Too  late! 
Too  late! 

The  woman  lay  in  the  shade,  but  it  would  take 
more  than  the  dust  of  the  desert  and  passing  years 
to  hide  that  terrible  face.  It  rose  before  him  now, 
and  he  gasped  like  a  drowning  man. 

In  the  golden  noon — by  the  lover's  moon, 

My  shadow  bars  your  way, 
My  shroud  shows  white  in  the  blackest  night, 

And  grey  in  the  gladdest  day. 
And  by  your  board  and  by  your  bed, 

There  is  a  place  for  me; 
And  in  the  glow  when  the  coals  burn  low, 

My  face  is  the  face  ye  see. T 

He  had  proved,  trebly  proved,  the  truth  of  that 
haunting  poem.  "By  your  board  and  by  your  bed; 
there  is  a  place  for  me!"  he  echoed  drearily,  and  his 
face  was  no  longer  the  face  of  the  jester,  but  of  a 
haunted  man. 

Young  Gore  slept  under  the  burning  sun,  a 
great  pile  of  stones  marking  the  ending  of  his  little 
day.  His  life's  work,  his  parents'  broken  hearts, 
lay  there  too.  At  eve  the  shadow  of  a  great  cross 
fell  aslant  his  desert  grave,  chance  passers-by  would 
tread  upon  the  holy  ground  and  wonder  idly  what 
story  lay  hidden  under  the  simple  words,  "Greater 
love  hath  no  man  than  this  ..."  and  the  name  . 
and  date.  And  that  hacked  body  rose  side  by 
side  with  the  other  from  out  of  the  grave. 

1  The  Past,  Mrs.  E.  Nesbit. 


148  Vagabond  City 

There  was  the  monument  for  all  men  to  see,  but 
what  of  the  secret  monument  he  had  sought  to 
raise?  What  of  the  life  that  was  to  be  more 
worthy  of  such  a  friendship!  How  few  and  poor 
the  stones,  in  spite  of  what  might  be  called  im- 
maculate conduct:  no  sins  of  commission — the 
harvest  of  omission  only !  When  would  that  monu- 
ment raise  its  stately  head?  The  very  trees  waved 
mocking  arms  at  him,  shrieked  "Never!"  into  his 
ears.  It  had  been  comparatively  easy  to  make 
burnt  offerings  of  the  big  vices,  but  the  little 
things  .  .  .  !  There  was  n't  much  to  show  so  far. 
The  building  remained  at  a  standstill,  and  he  was 
bitter  and  warped  and  jested  buffoon-wise,  lest 
memory  should  stir  too  fiercely.  He  sought  to  lay 
his  ghosts  with  laughter. 

As  he  stood  racked  with  morbid  thoughts  of 
those  whose  deaths,  in  his  dark  moments,  he  be- 
lieved lay  at  his  door,  he  was  almost  thankful  to 
remember  that  he  and  the  woman  he  had  named 
the  Elf,  were  never  likely  to  meet  again. 

"Heaven  knows  what  fate  I  might  not  bring  on 
her!"  he  muttered,  for,  much  as  young  Gore  had 
been  to  him,  yet  she  was  more:  comrade,  as  the 
man  had  been  comrade,  and  added  to  that  the 
woman  he  had  grown  to  love  with  a  love  that  grew 
greater  day  by  day.  It  was  certainly  well,  from 
all  points  of  view,  that  their  paths  in  life  lay  far 
apart. 

^  He  had  gone  to  the  Wayne  Collection,  found  her 
picture  at  once,  and  bought  it,  but  of  the  artist 


The  Past  Unveiled  149 

he  could  discover  no  trace.  She  was  "out  of 
England",  that  was  all  anybody  knew.  In  a 
month  or  a  year  or  half  a  dozen  years,  she  would 
appear  suddenly  and  without  notice  as  she  had 
done  before,  would  call  on  her  agent  for  news  of 
how  her  pictures  were  going,  and  any  money  he 
might  have  in  hand  for  her — which  money  she 
would  at  once  spend  in  the  most  improvident 
manner  possible.  Miss  Elphenstonne  was  always 
a  beggar — albeit  a  beggar  with  a  glad  heart;  she 
possessed  that  which  money  can  buy,  also  that 
which  no  wealth  could  purchase ;  but  money  was 
never  hers  for  more  than  a  day.  She  was  veiy 
much  the  female  complement  of  Michael  Talbot. 

He  hung  the  picture  he  had  seen  painted,  in  the 
best  light  possible,  and  would  gaze  at  it  before  his 
wife  came  down  in  the  morning.  At  such  times 
the  girl,  who  was  becoming  an  obsession  to  him, 
would  seem  very  near,  but,  when  Muriel  came 
down,  he  would  remember,  and  the  picture  would 
fade,  leaving  but  the  grey  prison  walls  of  his  cap- 
tivity. Things  had  been  growing  worse  instead  of 
better  lately  in  the  rich  uncle's  cottage,  and  Mr. 
Higgins  would  have  been  more  than  shocked  if  he 
could  have  known  how  far  apart  two  could  grow  in 
such  a  tiny  space.  The  two  women,  holding  to- 
gether, let  Mick  see  that  he  was  in  disgrace,  drove 
him  mad  by  their  narrow  ignorant  stupidity,  and 
a  thousand  pin-pricks.  His  morbidity  gained  on 
him,  made  him  see  things  in  an  abnormal  light: 
see  infinitely  more  than  there  was  to  see.  He  told 


150  Vagabond  City 

himself  that  there  was  nothing  to  make  life  worth 
while:  that  he  was  at  the  end,  instead  of  the  be- 
ginning. A  wave  of  utter  soul-sickness  passed 
over  him,  and  talent  and  ambition  withered  before 
it.  He  flung  aside  Pagan  People, ' '  I  shall  never  do 
anything  now,"  he  assured  himself.  "It  is  too 
late.  I  am  becoming  atrophied." 

His  violent  egoism,  in  which  he  saw  himself  as 
the  centre  of  a  world  sadly  out  of  joint,  appeared 
even  in  his  own  eyes  contemptible  and  ridiculous, 
but  persisted  just  the  same.  He  was  prisoner  of 
the  world,  of  fate,  of  himself,  bound  in  iron  chains. 

The  ache  of  loneliness,  intellectual,  physical, 
complete,  drove  him  to  long  exhausting  walks.  He 
would  go  out  at  dawn,  his  pockets  full  of  sand- 
wiches, and  return  late,  his  face  drawn  with  fatigue. 
Then  he  would  lie  awake,  and  it  would  drive  him 
mad  to  listen  to  Muriel's  soft  breathing.  Her 
soulless  prettiness  got  more  than  ever  on  his  nerves, 
and  there  were  times  when  he  came  near  to  hating 
her,  when  he  woke  after  a  brief,  uneasy  slumber,  in 
a  cold  sweat  from  the  nightmare  of  feeling  a 
woman's  soft  throat  under  merciless,  joyful  fingers. 
In  his  dreams,  the  moral  sense  died,  the  other  self 
triumphed,  and  he  turned  away  with  a  laugh  from 
the  inert  body  of  his  wife.  He  would  tramp  to  the 
sea,  stand  between  it  and  a  dark  line  of  forest, 
listen  to  the  hush  of  night  sweeping  up  to  his  rest- 
less feet,  and  feel  that  there  was  peace  all  around; 
and  only  in  his  own  heart  the  sword.  But  though 
he  fled  as  if  pursued  by  a  devil,  a  thousand  devils 


The  Past  Unveiled  151 

kept  pace  with  him:  he  could  never  leave  himself 
behind.  He  was  plunged  in  a  flood  of  torment, 
which  the  June  beauty  of  the  forest  aggravated 
rather  than  soothed.  He  did  not  want  beauty,  he 
hated  it  in  moments  like  these;  he  wanted  wild, 
savage  lands,  wild,  savage  ways,  all  the  unchained 
winds,  and  he  wanted  the  Elf. 

What  to  him  the  glow,  and  the  gold,  and  the 
fringe  of  purple  trees?  The  cry  of  joyous  bird  to 
joyous  bird,  the  soft,  deep,  laughing  rustle  of  the 
pines,  the  swish  of  the  corn  in  the  wind,  like  the 
trailing  skirts  of  fair  women,  the  bridal  glory  of 
the  whole  earth?  Nothing — less  than  nothing. 
And  then  home  and  dreams,  brief  and  terrible, 
again. 

To  wake  from  them  was  appalling;  he  was  as  a 
man  panting  back  from  the  pit  of  Hell.  He  would 
force  himself  to  be  as  good  as  he  knew  how,  to  the 
woman  he  had  unwillingly  married, — but,  without 
love,  companionship,  a  single  idea  in  common,  it 
was  not  easy.  Not  easy  enough,  at  least,  for 
Michael  Talbot,  who  had  not  been  endowed  with  a 
nature  leading  to  patience  or  sacrifice. 

In  his  dreams  he  could  not  help  it  that  the  Elf's 
hand  lay  in  his,  and  a  great  joy  flooded  his  soul, 
but  he  honestly  tried  to  thrust  her  from  his  side 
by  day — when  he  remembered  Muriel. 

11  If  I  had  only  known  in  time,  suspected  for  one 
minute, "  was  the  ceaseless  burden  of  his  cry,  but 
he  had  been  so  ignorant  of  where  his  feet  were 
treading.  To  be  "  in  love ' '  had  meant  a  very  brief, 


152  Vagabond  City 

a  very  burning  passion;  he  had  felt  it  frequently 
during  those  ten  years,  forgotten  it  in  a  week.  It 
had  been  a  passing,  physical  thing ;  woman  rather 
than  a  woman;  and  it  was  the  last  thing  in  the 
world  to  be  associated  with  the  Elf.  Three  weeks 
of  friendship,  three  weeks  of  intimate  understanding 
and  perfect  companionship  in  a  lonely  Swiss  inn — 
and  the  ache  of  a  lifetime  to  spring  from  it!  It 
was  not  just,  it  was  intolerable,  and  worse  than 
intolerable,  for  it  was — ridiculous.  He  would  tell 
himself  that  he  would  refuse  to  be  haunted,  since 
the  cold,  iron  gates  of  a  loveless  marriage  shut  out 
all  hope  of  better  things.  He  might — he  would — 
forget  the  Elf.  For  a  few  days  the  inconsequent 
winds  of  the  world  had  blown  her  to  him,  he  from 
the  East,  she  from  the  West,  both  tramps  on  Life's 
Highway. 

Life's  Highway,  the  other  passion  seized  him 
at  thought  of  those  two  words,  tore  at  him  with 
its  greedy,  restless  fingers. 

To  shut  his  eyes  to  the  allure  of  that  road !  The 
task  felt  greater  than  his  strength.  His  place  was 
out  yonder.  It  had  its  use  for  him.  There  was  no 
niche  for  him  here.  Inevitably,  some  day  he  would 
go  back.  Even  Judas  went  to  his  own  place.  He 
could  see  the  long,  winding  stretch  of  that  magic 
road,  going  on  and  on,  having  no  beginning,  know- 
ing no  end,  save  time;  he  felt  the  hands  of  the 
light-hearted,  light-pocketed  fellow- travellers,  and 
the  walls  of  civilisation  went  down  with  a  crash. 

Eight  months  of  misery  daily  growing  worse, 


The  Past  Unveiled  153 

each  day  an  eternity,  and  ten  times  a  thousand 
eternities  to  run!  It  was  unthinkable!  In  the 
end  the  walls  would  break,  go  down,  like  the 
walls  of  Jericho,  before  the  trumpet-call. 

After  all,  Muriel  would  be  far  happier  without 
him.  There  was  that  six  thousand  pounds,  it 
would  all  be  hers  to  do  with  as  she  pleased;  he 
would  add  to  it,  make  it  ten,  write  another  Doubtful 
Duchess  at  once,  settle  it  on  her,  and  then — dis- 
appear. He  had  known  more  than  one  man  who 
had  "disappeared"  and  was  believed  by  his  family 
to  be  dead.  They  had  shaken  off  unwelcome 
shackles,  so  why  not  he,  to  whom  the  shackles 
were  more  galling  still?  Soon  there  would  come  to 
Muriel  news — sufficient  proofs  even — of  his  death. 
What  matter  what  name  an  unknown  man  was 
buried  under?  It  could  be  worked,  should  be 
worked :  his  ingenuity  would  see  to  that.  It  would 
be  no  grief,  no  loss,  to  Muriel.  She  would  be  a 
young  widow,  a  beautiful  young  widow,  with  an 
income.  She  would  not  be  blind  to  the  advantages 
of  her  position.  She  would  marry  again  and  easily 
and  all  would  be  well.  He  would  never  return  to 
England;  there  would  be  no  danger  of  discovery; 
after  his  supposed  death  he  would  start  afresh 
with  a  new  name. 

He  would  not  stay  for  ever  between  two  closing 
walls  since  for  him  a  way  of  escape  showed  clear. 
"Closing  walls!"  The  words  conjured  before  his 
vivid  mental  vision  that  devil  torture  of  mediaeval 
times. 


154  Vagabond  City 

He  could  see  him  so  plainly — with  a  face  that  was 
as  his  own  face — the  victim,  shut  in  the  iron  room, 
the  ceiling  dropping  inch  by  inch,  the  walls  creep- 
ing nearer,  but  slowly,  very  slowly,  even  stopping 
now  and  then,  for  that  was  part  of  the  agony.  The 
victim  must  die  by  inches,  a  hundred  deaths,  suffer 
a  hundred  tortures — make  futile,  ridiculous  efforts 
to  escape.  Always  the  ridiculous — in  life,  in  love, 
in  death :  maybe  in  the  world  beyond !  A  thought 
of  Miss  Dalton  in  conventional  angel  attire,  looking 
askance  at  some  of  the  members  of  the  incongruous 
crowd  of  the  Blessed,  came  to  twist  his  lip  in 
laughter  even  then.  Then  again  he  saw  the  wretch 
in  his  prison;  saw  him  throw  himself  against  one 
wall,  to  escape  the  other,  only  to  be  pressed  on  to 
his  inevitable  doom,  now  flinging  himself  face 
downwards  on  the  floor,  with  a  haunting  cry,  call- 
ing upon  a  deaf  God,  Christian  or  pagan,while  the 
slow,  grinding  torture  began.  He  saw  it  all 
so  horribly  plainly,  and  cursed  the  vivid  imagina- 
tion bestowed  upon  him,  to  be  his  bane.  He 
thought  of  another  prison  he  had  once  entered  in 
the  East,  of  the  terrible,  grey  remnant  of  humanity 
that  lay  there,  indifferent  to  its  fate;  of  the  grey 
death  stealing  over  it,  the  grey  dawn,  and  the  grey 
walls!  but  they  were  grey  with  life,  not  death. 

He  had  fled  from  the  place,  but  he  could  not 
fly  from  the  picture  his  mental  eyes  saw  against 
his  will.  Prison  walls  seemed  all  around  him, 
unnumbered  humanity  shut  within  them,  with- 
out a  view,  a  chance  of  escape — since  only  one 


The  Past  Unveiled  155 

in  a  multitude  is  strong  enough  to  break  the  walls 
that  men  call  fate. 

Staring,  with  lips  locked,  hands  clenched,  Mick 
saw  the  iron  gin  close  on  the  writhing  victim,  and 
out  of  the  place  taken  something  hideous,  un- 
speakable, unclean,  something  that  was  no  longer 
human — something  to  be  covered  with  ashes.  So 
as  'he  looked  into  his  own  special  trap,  which, 
humanwise,  he  deemed  worse  than  the  trap  of 
another,  his  cry  was  the  terrible  cry  of  Cain,  "My 
punishment  is  greater  than  I  can  bear!"  And  he 
looked,  too,  into  the  Elf  's  haunting,  sea-green 
eyes,  and  hated  the  vacant  beauty  of  the  woman 
who  was  his  wife. 

Then  he  gazed,  with  unseeing  vision,  at  a  red 
sun  dropping  into  the  great  arms  of  the  forest,  and 
the  heather  scattering  into  pools  of  blood.  He 
saw  nothing,  heard  nothing,  his  face  was  turned  to 
where  the  sea  lay,  his  thoughts  drifted  like  derelicts 
on  a  strong  tide  .  .  .  and  he  sailed  for  shores 
unknown  of  man,  echoing  with  a  terrible  longing 
those  words  of  John  Masefield : 

I  must  go  down  to  the  seas  again,  to  the  lonely  sea 

and  the  sky, 

And  all  I  ask  is  a  tall  ship  and  a  star  to  steer  her  by; 
And  the  wheel's  kick  and  the  wind's  song  and  the 

white  sails'  shaking, 
And  a  grey  mist  on  the  sea's  face,  and  a  grey  dawn 

breaking ! 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  UNEXPECTED  HAPPENS 

AS  he  entered  his  abode,  Mick  was  met  at  the 
door  by  Muriel,  who  announced  that  Miss 
Dalton  had  sprained  her  wrist,  and  required  a 
doctor. 

Though  exhausted  with  a  day's  tramp,  and 
faint  for  want  of  food,  Mick  at  once  got  out  his 
bicycle,  and  went  to  the  bare,  bleak,  little  house, 
some  miles  on  the  other  side  of  the  moor,  where 
the  nearest  doctor  was  to  be  found,  and  was 
scarcely  back  with  the  message  that  he  was  fol- 
lowing on  his  machine,  before  the  doctor  himself 
arrived. 

Dr.  Byrne  was  a  brown-faced  man  with  a  brown 
beard  and  kindly  deep-set  eyes.  Though  short, 
stout,  and  thick-set,  he  was  not  without  a  strong 
attraction  of  his  own.  With  much  to  make  him 
cynical  and  bitter,  he  was  always  bright  and 
optimistic,  and  quite  unsparing  of  himself.  He 
spent  himself  more  than  generously  on  his  patients, 
who  repaid  him  by  grumbling  at  his  bills,  and  more 
often  than  not  ignoring  their  obligations  alto- 
gether. He  was  only  "the  doctor,"  their  servant 

156 


The  Unexpected  Happens    157 

— nearly  their  slave.  They  sent  for  him  when  they 
were  really  frightened;  at  other  times  forgot  his 
existence.  He  had  a  spare  and  poor  practice,  and 
a  complaining  invalid  sister.  His  whole  life  had 
been  a  sacrifice  to  others :  to  his  parents,  who  had 
given  him  no  peace  till  he  relinquished  his  dreams 
of  an  ambitious  London  practice,  in  order  to  take 
his  father's  place  after  him;  to  his  peevish,  hys- 
terical sister;  to  his  patients,  who  demanded  all 
and  gave  nothing,  not  even  the  truth;  seldom  the 
credit  when  he  had  won  life  for  them,  instead  of 
death,  but  always  the  credit  for  the  death.  They 
were,  to  say  the  truth  of  it,  a  thankless  generation. 
Yet  a  sense  of  humour  had  survived  which  made 
his  life  possible,  and  even  pleasant,  and,  unlike 
Mick,  he  never  looked  back  on  the  might-have- 
been,  but  set  a  brave  face  steadily  forward.  His 
one  passion  was  pictures,  and  he  was  keenly  in- 
terested in  the  lives  of  their  painters.  He  had  no 
sooner  crossed  the  threshold  than  he  caught  sight 
of  Mick's  treasure,  and  examined  it  eagerly. 

"That 's  the  real  thing,"  he  said  approvingly. 
He  sighed  for  a  moment,  for  he  would  never  be 
able  to  afford  himself  a  treasure  such  as  this, 
while  his  sister  lived;  and  he  was  sincere  in  his 
wish  that  she  might  live  for  many  years.  Any 
luxury  for  the  bare  little  house  went  into  the 
greedy  thankless  fingers  of  Miss  Byrne. 

He  bent  closer  over  the  signature. 

"Elphenstonne?  The  lady  who  painted  A 
Baltic  Shore'?'1 


158  Vagabond  City 

"You  know  her  work?" 

"I  have  not  seen  much,  not  as  much  as  I  could 
wish,  but  I  have  noticed  it.  It 's  so  alive,  so 
promising,  so  talented.  I  manage  a  visit  to  the 
galleries  twice  a  year  when  the  excursions  are  on, 
and  I  have  grown  to  look  for  her  name  in  the 
smaller  galleries.  I  always  feel  she  '11  be  in  the 
biggest  one  of  these  days,  the  forefront  perhaps, 
but  you — do  you  know  her?" 

"I  have  met  her,"  said  Mick,  in  a  tone  that 
closed  the  discussion. 

The  doctor  spent  valuable  time  over  Miss 
Dalton  and  her  sprained  wrist,  and  finally  pre- 
pared for  departure.  As  he  shook  hands,  Mrs. 
Hobbs  appeared  out  of  the  back-kitchen,  and 
started  slightly  at  sight  of  him;  she  met  his  nod 
of  recognition  with  a  freezing  stare  and  returned 
with  head  erect  to  the  back-kitchen. 

Dr.  Byrne's  deep-set  eyes  twinkled.  "Alas! 
one  of  my  failures,"  he  said,  in  an  undertone  to 
Mick.  "I  did  cure  her,  but  not  in  the  way  she 
appreciated,  'and  we  parted  rather  less  than 
friends." 

"I  thought  Dr.  Byrne  was  your  doctor,"  Mick 
said  afterwards  to  the  charwoman. 

"Once,"  she  replied  loftily,  "but  he's  no 
longer  employed  by  me.  I  gave  'im  the  chuck 
after  my  last  illness.  He  put  my  dieiknowsit  all 
wrong,  and  it 's  not  got  settled  right  to  this  diy. 
He  'ad  the  impidence  to  tell  me  I  'ad  somethink 
what  I  never  did  'ave,  nor  would  n't,  was  it  ever 


The  Unexpected  Happens        159 

so,  and  contradicted  me  that  rude,  that  I  just 
said  I  'ad  n't  no  use  for  'im.  A  fat  lot  of  good 
'e  is  as  a  doctor!  Ho  yus!  You  wait  till  'e  tries 
it  hon  with  your  aunt!" 

But  Miss  Dalton  did  not  agree  with  Mrs. 
Hobbs.  She  liked  the  doctor,  and  drew  out  her  in- 
disposition longer  than  she  would  have  done  if  he 
had  been  a  married  man,  or  she  a  married  woman. 
One  never  knew.  Stranger  things  had  happened. 

"'E  only  gets  the  farms  and  cottages,"  said 
Mrs.  Hobbs,  with  a  sniff.  "An'  the  wiy  'e  'as 
the  winder  open  givin'  sick  folk  their  death  is 
a  fair  disgrice!"  Her  curious  eyes  followed  a 
carriage  and  pair  conveying  a  smart  old  lady  down 
the  Shrewsbury  Road.  "What  a  lovely  bonnet 
to  get  converted  in!"  she  sighed. 

Mick's  face  fell.  "But  not  so  sbon  again,  Mrs, 
Hobbs!"  he  begged  imploringly. 

"I  'ave  n't  got  a  bonnet  suitable,"  the  charlady 
sighed  reluctantly,  "so  it  'as  to  be  put  off,  but  I 
feel  the  need  of  grice  somethink  awful,  and  'opes 
to  get  done  afore  long." 

She  always  spoke  of  being  converted  as  "getting 
done." 

Unconverted,  Mrs.  Hobbs  was  a  sinful  woman, 
but  a  divine  cook;  converted,  she  became  quite 
a  holy  person — while  it  lasted — but  a  shocking 
cook,  her  thoughts  being  on  other  matters.  She 
uttered  "Hallelujahs"  at  inconsequent  moments, 
and  when  remonstrated  with  on  the  score  of  her 
cooking,  rebuked  the  speaker  for  "carnal  appe- 


i6o  Vagabond  City 

tite."  In  a  state  of  grace  she  was  very  much  to 
be  dreaded.  The  period  usually  lasted  from  three 
days  to  three  weeks,  after  which  she  had  a  truly 
awful  and  sinful  outbreak  in  the  whisky  line,  and 
remained  invisible  for  about  a  week  with  "in- 
fluenzy"  or  "neuralgy."  That  week  over,  a 
somewhat  shaken,  but  normal,  Mrs.  Hobbs  ap- 
peared, taking  up  in  an  entirely  matter-of-course 
way  her  work  from  where  she  had  left  it.  She  had, 
since  her  service  at  the  cottage,  been  already 
converted  once — though  not  entirely  to  her  satis- 
faction— and  Mick  had  hoped  she  would  be  con- 
tent for  some  months  to  come. 

However,  the  sight  of  the  old  lady's  very  smart 
bonnet  had  sown  the  seed  of  desire,  and  having 
spent  five  shillings  on  bright  flowers  in  imitation 
of  the  unsuspecting  dowager's  Bond  Street  toque, 
Mrs.  Hobbs  only  a  few  days  later,  announced  her 
fell  intention  to  the  dismayed  Michael. 

"I'm  goin'  into  Southampton  to  get  con- 
verted," she  told  Mick  dramatically.  "They 
don't  do  you  proper  in  the  forest;  no  workin'  you 
hup  somethink  hawful  like  they  did  in  Lunnon,  no 
screamin'  nor  shoutin'  nor  nothink;  a  pore  lazy 
lot  even  about  gettin'  grice,  I  always  siy.  There  's 
a  noo  minister  come  to  Southampton  for  a  spell 
what  mikes  you  cry  at  sight  of  'im,  and  'as  folk  in 
'ystericks  stright  awiy—  really  rousin'  'e  is. 
I  'm  going  to  be  done  there  proper  this  time,  an' 
shall  want  the  whole  diy  off.  Please  tell  Mrs. 
Talbot  when  she  comes  'ome." 


The  Unexpected  Happens        161 

"It's  diversion  you  want,  not  conversion!" 
muttered  Mick  injudiciously.  "And  you  know 
how  upset  you  are  afterwards  with  nerves.  I 
wish  you  would  n't!  Can't  you  put  if  off  a  little 
longer?" 

"You'  ave  to  go  when  the  spirit  moves  you,  "said 
Mrs.  Hobbs  curtly,  and  departed  on  her  errand. 

Mick  broke  the  bad  news  to  Muriel,  and  for 
some  weeks  their  domestic  arrangements  left 
much  to  be  desired  in  the  way  of  comfort. 

When  Muriel  complained  that  the  charlady  had 
forgotten  to  put  the  tea  in  the  pot,  and  had  served 
up  boiling  water,  that  lady  crossed  her  arms  and 
answered  with  a  majestic  hallelujah;  and  when 
Mick  waxed  plaintive  over  uneatable  chops,  she 
merely  informed  him  she  was  "sived"  and  ignored 
anything  so  carnal  as  chops. 

Then  Mick,  with  deliberate  and  criminal  intent, 
left  a  whole  bottle  of  whisky  lying  about,  and  when 
Mrs.  Hobbs  returned  after  a  few  days'  absence 
she  was  once  more  the  character  they  had  learned 
to  make  the  best  of,  and  even,  so  far  as  Mick  him- 
self was  concerned,  got  some  amusement  out  of. 

She  arrived  in  specially  genial  mood,  and  the 
bearer  of  news. 

"There  's  an  artist  coming,"  she  announced,  as 
one  stating  the  sensational  coming  of  a  criminal. 
"'E  's  got  a  name  scrawled  any'ow  which  is  a  fair 
corker,  an'  is  goin'  to  camp  out  hopposite  'avin' 
got  leave.  'Arrison  is  sendin'  John  down  for  'im 
an'  'is  traps  this  very  evenin'." 


1 62  Vagabond  City 

"Perhaps  he'll  be  an  acquisition,"  said  Miss 
Dalton  eagerly. 

"'E  '11  be  worse  'n  that,"  returned  Mrs.  Hobbs, 
without  any  doubt  whatsoever.  "I've  lived 
along  o'  them  and  I  know.  A'  acquisition — ho 
yus!  'E  'sfrom  Paris." 

No  one  could  say  worse  than  that. 

"Always  fair  terrors  after  the  petticoats — which 
did  n't  even  'ave  one!  I  seed  things  through  the 
key'ole  what  'd  mike  your  'air  stand  on  nend. 
Ho  yus!" 

Mick  was  moved  to  an  injudicious  defence  of 
the  clean,  gay  city  he  loved.  Had  he  not  spent 
many  profitable  days  there?  Was  it  not  the  home 
— when  she  had  one — of  the  Elf  herself? 

"There  are  beauties  in  Paris — "  he  began. 

Mrs.  Hobbs  checked  him  at  once.  "As  a  re- 
spectable female  I  don't  want  no  'istory  of  the 
other  sort,"  she  said  virtuously. 

Mick  laughed.  "I  was  alluding  to  the  artistic 
beauties,  thinking  of  the  architecture,  the  pic- 
tures  " 

"I  prefer  not  to  think  of  them,  'avin'  once  done 
the  Wallace  Collection  with  a  lidy  friend  what 
said  she  'd  be  sorry  to  'ave  'er  'usband  see.  What 
I  don't  know  about  artists  and  journalists  'avin' 
kept  a  boardin'-'ouse  for  them,  ain't  worth  knowin', 
nor  decent  to  talk  about." 

"I  assure  you,  your  experience,  though  unfortu- 
nate in  its  way,  was  unique.  The  majority  are 
not  what  you  suppose.  You  happened  to  be 


The  Unexpected  Happens        163 

unlucky  enough  to  be  let  in  for  the  Gunter  set — a 
set  pretty  well  cut  by  reputable  Bohemians:  they 
were  n't  even  genuine  writers  or  painters,  merely 
degenerate,  decadent " 

"Talkin*  don't  mike  sows  ears  into  silk  purses," 
interrupted  Mrs.  Hobbs  contemptuously.  "They 
was  artists  an*  journalists  and  behived  as  sich, 
and  I  for  one  never  expected  anythink  else  though 
'avin'  a  livin'  to  mike.  .  .  .  This  feller  will  be 
the  sime,  an'  it  won't  be  long  afore  he  learns  there  's 
a  young  lidy  left  unprotected  owin  to  her  'usband 
bein'  on  the  tramp  all  diy  an*  writin'  'is  trash  all 
night." 

When  Mick  came  in  for  supper  that  evening, 
he  was  secretly  amused  to  find  his  wife  and  Miss 
Dalton  more  elaborately  attired  than  usual. 
Mrs  Hobbs,  however,  had  obtained  best  position 
in  the  window.  As  the  "discoverer"  of  the  artist, 
she  plainly  held  it  her  right. 

"There  's  the  cart  a-comin'  now,"  she  announced 
with  the  air  of  a  showman.  "What  a  wettin' 
'e'll  get — serve  'im  right  too!  Paintin'  natur — 
ho  yus!" 

"All  this  excitement  about  a  profligate  artist," 
grumbled  Mick,  eyeing  the  cooling  meal  in  dismay. 
"We  can  see  him  any  time,  but  this  pie  is  deteri- 
orating by  inches!" 

No  one  took  the  least  notice  of  him.  He  sat 
with  his  back  to  the  window,  gazing  at  his  empty 
plate  with  a  sigh,  and  waited  till  the  excitement 
should  have  subsided. 


1 64  Vagabond  City 

"There  was  three  startin'  letters  an'  a  nime  as 
long  as  my  arm,"  remarked  Mrs.  Hobbs. 

"An  A.R.A.!"  suggested  Miss  Dalton  excitedly. 
"Fancy,  Muriel,  an  A.R.A.!" 

"Do  you  know  if  he  's  young,  unmarried,  tall?" 
enquired  Muriel  eagerly,  of  the  charwoman. 

"Harrison  showed  me  the  letter,  but  it  didn't 
tell  nothink  at  all — sive  that  'e  'ad  n't  learned  his 
letters  no  more  'n  a  babby,  like  a  spider  it  was!" 

"Without  a  doubt  a  genius!"  interposed  Mick, 
stealthily  drawing  the  tasty  pie  closer.  "I  am 
going  to  cut  it — do  come!" 

A  cry  from  the  three  spectators  caused  him  to 
drop  his  knife  with  a  clatter. 

"Why,  it's  a  woman!"  shrilled  Miss  Dalton 
indignantly. 

"Such  an  odd  plain  little  creature!"  came  from 
Muriel. 

"A  female  from  Paris,"  was  Mrs.  Hobbs's  grim 
contribution.  "Now  we  shan't  be  long!  I  won- 
der who  she's  come  after?"  She  darted  a  sus- 
picious glance  at  Mick. 

Harrison's  John  was  looking  very  startled 
himself.  It  was  obvious  that,  being  prepared  to 
meet  a  man,  he  had  not  yet  got  over  the  shock  of 
his  surprise. 

"A  woman!"  Mick  was  surprised  though 
not  sufficiently  interested  to  go  to  the  window 
himself.  "Well,  she  '11  be  company  for  you, 
Muriel— and  we  can  start  now!"  He  dug  his 
knife  into  the  pie. 


The  Unexpected  Happens        165 

"Ho  yus!"  retorted  Mrs.  Hobbs,  eyeing  him 
severely.  " I  don't  think! " 

"I  don't  think  I  care  for  her  appearance,"  said 
Muriel  stiffly.  "Though  not  really  young,  she 
is  too  young  to  be  gadding  about  like  this  by 
herself,  and  she  's  very  odd-looking.  And  mad! 
She  's  taken  off  her  coat  and  hat  and  put  them 
in  the  bottom  of  the  cart  and  is  getting  drenched 
as  if  she  enjoyed  it!  She  hardly  looks  .  .  . 
civilised." 

She  came  slowly  to  the  table  and  sat  down. 
"Why  don't  you  go  on  carving?"  she  enquired 
impatiently.  "We're  ready."  For  Mick  had 
risen  and  stood  staring  through  the  window  as  if 
at  an  incredible  vision.  The  unconscious  subject 
of  so  much  observation  sat  very  high  on  the  board 
of  the  cart,  her  face  upturned  to  the  driving  wind 
and  rain.  With  her  dark,  eager,  little,  brown  face, 
her  massive,  black  hair,  she  looked  more  like  a 
sprite  than  a  woman.  She  had  a  tiny,  slim  form, 
and  hands  of  amazing  smallness  covered  with 
flashing  rings.  The  rain  had  flushed  her  brown 
cheeks  and  glistened  on  the  ropes  of  dark,  grey- 
tinged  hair — hair  which  people  thought  black 
till  they  saw  it  in  the  sun  and  found  it  dull, 
glowing  copper. 

Odd,  perhaps,  but  scarcely  plain,  in  spite  of 
dark  skin,  too-long  chin,  too-wide  mouth,  and 
blunt  nose;  even  though  the  whole  face  was  just 
a  little  worn  with  a  too  strenuous  life ;  for  the  eyes 
would  have  redeemed  ugliness  itself.  Green  as 


166  Vagabond  City 

the  sea,  capable  of  all  the  changing  moods  of  the 
sea,  ever  wonderful,  ever  rare:  eyes  set  very 
curiously  too,  very  deep,  very  dark,  very  far  apart; 
wide  open  always  with  a  strangely  fearless  gaze — 
the  eyes  of  a  dreamer,  perhaps  even  of  a  genius, 
but  of  no  common  soul. 

As  she  sat  there  glorying  in  the  rough  caress 
of  wind  and  rain,  she  fitted  into  the  scene  as  a 
will-o'-the  wisp  fits  into  the  moors.  It  was 
merely  that  she  "belonged,"  and  "to  belong"  to 
her  temporary  setting  was  one  of  the  many  curious 
gifts  of  the  rather  curious  Miss  Elphenstonne. 

She  was  always  perfectly  at  home — at  a  great 
embassy  with  her  grandmother's  rubies  in  her 
hair,  riding  over  a  desert,  or  painting  in  a  shabby 
Paris  studio.  And  wherever  she  went,  and  what- 
ever she  did,  her  small,  virile  face  was  always 
unconsciously  set  towards  the  light. 

"She  looks  no  better  than  a  vagabond,"  said 
Miss  Dalton,  smoothing  down  her  "best"  dark 
skirt.  No  dressmaker  could  help  Miss  Dalton's 
garments  getting  "rucked"  just  below  the  waist- 
line when  she  sat  down. 

"A  vagabond!"  cried  Mick,  with  a  great  bellow 
of  joy.  ' '  That 's  just  what  she  is ! "  And  dashed 
through  the  doorway. 

"E  seems  to  know  *er,"  remarked  Mrs.  Hobbs 
ominously.  "Probably  she's  'is  Paris  Past- 
or one  of  'em!" 

Muriel  only  laughed.  Jealous  of  that  pagan 
little  creature  with  the  dreadfully  dark  skin  and 


The  Unexpected  Happens        167 

wide,  curveless  mouth!  Why  she  was  almost 
haggard,  looked  thirty-five,  and  that  was  four 
years  older  than  Mick.  Admire  a  woman  with 
four  years  to  the  bad,  and  a  dash  of  grey  in  her 
hair!  Absolutely  out  of  the  question — ridiculous, 
and  neither  then,  nor  at  any  time,  did  jealousy 
come  into  the  affair. 

Had  the  artist  been  in  the  least  pretty  in  the 
most  commonplace  way,  her  skin  fairer,  her 
hair  skilfully  "tinted,"  her  tiny  figure  a  few 
inches  taller,  then  the  note  of  warning  would  have 
been  quickly  sounded,  but  while  Mick  saw  Helen, 
the  World's  Desire,  his  wife  saw  only  an  odd, 
plain  woman,  "getting  on,"  who  might  be  clever 
(and  cleverness  was  a  disability  in  these  affairs: 
men  were  afraid  of  clever  women)  but  certainly 
was  not  attractive.  Her  features  were  really 
rather  awful,  and  her  eyes  "peculiar." 

Men  and  women  viewed  Miss  Elphenstonne 
with  very  different  vision.  She  was  the  type  of 
woman  who,  as  men  are  so  quick  to  assure  their 
wives,  is  not  at  all  pretty.  In  this  they  spoke 
the  truth.  Miss  Elphenstonne  was  not  in  the 
least  pretty,  though  at  times  she  could  look  beau- 
tiful. She  had  something  more  dangerous  than 
prettiness,  for  the  art  of  fascination  was  hers  to 
an  unusual  degree.  Muriel  never  guessed  that 
she  had  added  to  the  artist's  age  by  more  than  five 
years,  and  that  when  Miss  Elphenstonne  entered 
a  crowded  reception,  in  one  of  her  Paris  frocks, 
half  the  men  present  never  saw,  or  wished  to 


i68  Vagabond  City 

see,  anyone  else.  If  she  could,  and  frequently 
did,  look  uncommonly  plain,  Miss  Elphenstonne 
had  also  that  inner,  illusive  beauty  which  triumphs 
over  mere  features,  and  lights  into  surpassing 
loveliness  the  faces  of  its  fortunate  possessors. 
Only  the  hair  and  the  eyes,  the  expression  of  the 
mobile  mouth,  the  exquisite  teeth,  mattered  at 
moments  such  as  these:  she  became  beauty  itself 
in  a  flash,  for  a  flash,  and  men  followed  blindly 
the  small,  elfin  figure  as  it  danced  in  and  out  like 
some  flame  of  fire.  In  the  small  body  was  the 
fiercest,  most  intense  life. 

But  there  were  other  times,  more  frequent 
times,  which  would,  alas!  become  more  frequent 
still  as  time  passed,  when  drawn,  sallow,  her 
mouth  unutterably  weary,  the  girl  was  plain 
to  downright  ugliness,  when  she  would  have  been 
hideous — save  for  her  eyes. 

A  celebrated  author,  one  of  her  oldest  and 
warmest  friends  and  admirers,  had  once  laughingly 
compared  her  to  a  house  standing  alone  in  a  lane, 
very  dark  and  drear  and  unnoticeable,  till  its 
countless  windows  flashed  into  radiant  light,  when 
it  became  a  palace  and  the  only  thing  that  mattered 
in  the  lane  at  all!  And  the  simile  was  an  apt  one. 
Just  now  as  she  rode  past,  tired,  damp,  unex- 
pectant,  the  house  stood  blank,  unillumined. 

Mick  came  dashing  up  to  the  high  cart,  and 
seizing  the  artist's  tiny  hands  wrung  them 
ruthlessly. 

"The  Elf!"  he  choked.     "The  Elf!— at  last!" 


The  Unexpected  Happens        169 

He  drew  a  long  breath,  gazing  at  her  with  face 
afire. 

John  squinted  down  his  long,  thin  nose  at  his 
fare  and  her  friend,  and  decided  it  was  "a  rum 

go." 

"If  it  isn't  Ulysses — the  Vagabond  himself!" 
cried  Miss  Elphenstonne,  amazed  and  delighted. 
Her  eyes  shone  and  the  weariness  passed  from 
her  face.  The  house  was  illumined  throughout 
now,  and  John  suddenly  decided  his  odd  fare  was 
"none  so  dusty  to  look  at  after  all."  "I  thought 
you  were  going  to  Turkey?" 

"And  I  thought  you  were  going  to  Italy!"  he 
retorted.  "I  say,  John,  you  needn't  wait. 
I  '11  see  to  the  lady's  things  being  put  straight; 
expect  I  know  more  of  camping-out  than  you." 

John  departed,  wondering  what  "was  up  be- 
tween them  two"  and  later  discussed  the  matter 
with  Mrs.  Hobbs,  who  implied  the  worst. 

"What  Heaven-sent  wind  has  blown  you  here?" 
demanded  the  radiant  young  man  as  he  started 
on  the  tent. 

"I  've  come  back  from  Italy  and  I  Ve  got  a 
job.  A  rich  old  gentleman,  who  had  lived  close 
to  here,  saw  one  of  my  pictures,  and  commissioned 
me  to  paint  a  series  of  certain  forest  scenes,  and, 
as  I  wanted  to  get  into  nature's  solitudes  to  paint 
a  picture  of  my  own — the  picture — I  accepted 
joyfully,  and  here  I  am!  But  it  seems  too  good 
to  be  true  to  find  you  here  also.  I  suppose  you  're 
camping  out  somewhere?  I  hope  my  tents  won't 


170  Vagabond  City 

leave  me  roofless  the  first  windy  night.  What  a 
funny  little  cottage!  Who  lives  there?" 

"I  do." 

"You  sybarite!  So  that 's  your  solitary  retreat. 
Well,  I  prefer  mine." 

"Not — not  solitary,"  returned  Mick,  crimsoning. 

She  looked  at  his  scarlet  face,  then  at  the 
cottage,  which  she  now  noticed  gave  distinct  evi- 
dences of  feminine  touches,  and  frowned.  Then 
she  gave  the  careless  shrug  of  a  woman  whom 
few  situations  take  aback. 

"Oh,  I  see!"  she  said,  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone. 

Mick  could  have  carried  off  the  situation  she 
suspected  much  more  easily  than  the  true  one. 
Twice  he  attempted  an  explanation,  twice  the 
hateful  words  stuck  in  his  throat. 

Miss  Elphenstonne,  a  little  surprised  at  his 
agony  of  embarrassment,  strove  to  relieve  him 
by  treating  the  matter  with  frank  carelessness. 

"Quite  an  ideal  spot  for  two,"  she  said. 

"But  there  are  five!"  gasped  Mick. 

"Five!"  she  echoed  astonished,  then  subsided 
into  helpless  laughter.  "Oh,  Mick— a  harem! 
What  do  you  mean?" 

He  too  laughed — rather  desperately.  "Yes, 
Esmerelda  and  Mrs.  Hobbs,  Miss  Dalton  and — 
Muriel." 

"Tell  me  about  Muriel,"  she  suggested. 

"Esmerelda  is  the  pig,  black  and,  hairy  and 
horribly  intelligent.  Mrs.  Hobbs,  the  cook  and 
whisky-drinker. ' ' 


The  Unexpected  Happens    171 

' '  I  see. "  The  artist  waited  patiently  for  further 
revelations.  There  was  something  he  did  not 
want  to  tell  her  sooner  than  he  could  help. 

"She  finds  the  whisky  wherever  you  put  it,"  he 
said  with  a  mirthless  laugh.  "We  play  a  regular 
game  of  hide-and-seek,  and  she  usually  wins." 

"And  Miss  Dalton?" 

"Oh,  she  is  Muriel's  aunt." 

"And  Muriel?" 

"Is  my  wife,"  he  said,  between  his  teeth,  the 
words  sounding  like  a  groan. 

"Your  wife!  "  The  girl's  eyes  were  wide  with 
amazement.  "  I  never  knew  you  had  one — indeed 
I  supposed  you  the  most  bachelor  of  bachelors ! " 

"So  I  was  then.  But  I  married  soon  after  I 
arrived  in  England."  He  sighed  heavily.  "You 
see,  we  had  broken  sixpences  when  we  were  boy 
and  girl  ten  years  ago,  and  though  I  'd  forgotten 
all  about  it  and  her — she  had  n't.  It  was  good 
of  her  to  be  faithful  all  those  years,  was  n't  it, 
Elf?"  he  asked  miserably.  "And  she's  far  too 
good  for  me,  and  awfully  pretty.  I  'm  a  worthless, 
unthankful  brute.  So  of  course  we  were  married, 
and  her  rich  uncle — who  's  a  poisonous  beast — 
lent  us  this  cottage.  I  'm  sure  you  will  admire 
her,"  he  went  on  desperately,  "and  think  how 
lucky  I  am.  She  's  awfully  good  at  saving  and 
housekeepin'  and  makes  blouses  that  look  as  if 
they  came  ->ut  of  a  shop — they  do  indeed!" 

"How  clever  of  her — I  wish  I  could!  If  I 
tried,  people  would  say  they  or  I  had  come 


"172  Vagabond  City 

out  of  a  lunatic  asylum !  Congratulations,  Mick. 
You  hardly  deserved  such  faith!"  She  turned  her 
eyes  away  from  his  miserable  face,  knowing  full 
well  that  if  he  had  not  deserved  his  wife,  neither 
did  he  desire  her.  She  thought  she  saw  the  marks 
of  deterioration  already  stamped  upon  his  face. 

She  was  horribly  sorry  for  him.  She  had  liked 
Mick  Talbot  better  than  any  man  she  knew — and 
she  knew  a  very  great  many.  Her  passion  for  her 
art  left  no  room  for  any  other,  so  that  no  man  had 
ever  won  more  than  friendship  from  her.  Be- 
tween her  and  Mick  had  been  the  warmest,  closest 
bond;  perfect  companionship  and  understanding, 
free  speech  and  few  reticences.  Their  minds  had 
seemed  the  halves  of  a  whole,  and  she  hated  to 
think  her  fellow  vagabond  had  found  so  little  in 
marriage. 

"Are  you  a  quite  new  husband?"  she  enquired 
with  assumed  lightness. 

"Oh,  no!  November,  and  now  it's  July!  It 
seems  a  lifetime,"  he  added  simply.  "But  never 
mind  all  that.  I  Ve  got  my  old  chum  back,  any- 
how. How  I  Ve  wanted  you,  Elf,  but  you  leave 
everything  behind  you  save  an  address — and  that 
sort  of  thing  is  only  permissible  in  a  man !  We  '11 
be  young  and  foolish  again,  and  play  'picnics' — 
I  've  been  a  thousand  lately,  and  a  nasty,  snappy 
Methuselah,  as  Miss  Dalton  will  tell  you.  Do 
you  remember  how  the  sun  seemed  to  rise  beneath 
us  and  turned  even  the  sun  blood-red,  and  the 
picture  you  painted.  ..." 


The  Unexpected  Happens   173 

"I  had  such  a  stroke  of  luck  with  it!"  she  cried 
joyfully.  "Sent  it  to  the  Wayne  Gallery,  and 
priced  it  rather  stiffly;  they  hung  it  quite  nicely 
and  some  old  dear  bought  it  for  a  hundred 
pounds!" 

"He  was  on  the  make — that  chap!"  said  Mick 
quickly.  "In  ten  years'  time  it'll  be  worth  its 
thousands." 

Though  he  knew  it  not  he  spoke  with  the  tongue 
of  prophecy. 

"I  wish  I  knew  who  'd  bought  it,"  she  went  on. 
"I  'd  like  to  thank  the  blessed  dear!  Fancy  a 
whole  hundred  pounds!  I  never  dared  ask  as 
much  before.  People  are  so  shy  of  strange 
artists  till  their  names  are  made — and  mine  's 
still  in  the  making.  But  twenty-nine  is  not 
hopelessly  old,  and  it 's  going  to  be  made,  Mick, 
it 's  going  to  be  made!" 

"I  know  that,  Elf,"  he  returned,  without  any 
doubt  whatsoever,  "and  half  the  art  world  knows 
it  too.  The  public  are  always  the  last  to  come  in, 
but  you  '11  have  them  at  heel  before  long,  mark 
my  words." 

"I  hope  so.  I  Ve  got  the  picture  started — but 
I  'm  always  so  afraid  of  death  coming  and  inter- 
fering. I  look  on  the  Great  Enemy  quite  im- 
personally. I  do  not  fear  it  for  myself — I  am 
nothing — only  for  my  art.  I  simply  could  not 
bear  it — to  die  before  I  had  given  out  my  best. 
After  then  it  does  not  matter.  Sometimes  I  get 
such  odd  presentiments.  ..."  The  light  went 


174  Vagabond  City 

out  of  face  and  eyes,  terror  showed  in  them,  and 
her  beauty  was  eclipsed. 

"Rubbish,"  he  said  sharply,  giving  her  a  little 
shake.  "Here,  where  am  I  to  put  this  thing?  So 
you  're  rich — pro  tern?" 

"Oh,  no!"  she  exclaimed,  almost  thankfully, 
"the  hundred  went  all-in-an-instant-minute  at 
Monte  Carlo.  I  just  looked  in  on  some  friends 
in  the  neighbourhood  for  a  week-end.  Yes,  I 
know  I  'm  an  idiot — but  you  used  to  be  another! 
As  for  people  talking  about  my  'private  income,' 
that 's  silly.  Nobody  can  have  an  income  under 
a  hundred  pounds  per  annum,  and  mine  is  ninety- 
nine  pounds,  nineteen  and  eleven-pence  to  the 
exact  penny,  which  of  course  does  n't  count  at 
all,  except  there  's  often  nineteen  and  eleven-pence 
doing  no  good  to  be  spent  to  make  my  bank-book 
even.  It  would  be  cruel  to  compel  the  bank  people 
to  balance  nineteen  and  eleven-pence." 

"So  you  leave  them  nothing  to  balance  at  all, 
and  they  endorse  your  cheques  'refer  to  drawer'  or 
'no  account'!"  he  interrupted  with  a  grin,  "while 
you  continue  to  regard  the  nineteen  and  eleven- 
pence as  a  widow's  cruse!" 

"I  always  envy  the  lucky  people  without  an 
income,"  sighed  Miss  Elphenstonne.  "They 
are  spared  the  awful  worry  of  trying  to  keep 
within  it." 

"Marriage,"  said  Mick  inconsequently,  "is  not 
all  loss!" 

"My  dear  Mick— of  course  not!" 


The  Unexpected  Happens        175 

"No,  I  Ve  got  a  comic  pig,  and  a  comic  Mrs. 
Hobbs,  an  Aunt  Susan  and  an  Uncle  William. 
Uncle  William  is  a  funny  shape  in  front,  Aunt 
Susan  in  the  bog.  I  '11  swop  you;  what  have  you 
got?" 

"Be  a  nice,  serious  boy  till  we  Ve  got  the  tent 
straight!"  she  coaxed. 

"I  can't!  I  'm  bursting  with  joy  and  folly  at 
sight  of  you!  What  have  you  got,  be  quick!" 

"A  nineteen  and  eleven-penny  kettle  and  tea- 
pot, making  perfect  tea,  a  coffee  ditto,  taking 
hardly  any  room  in  pockets — you  don't  mind 
bulgy  pockets,  do  you? — and  a  chafing-dish, — I 
forget  how  many  nineteen  and  eleven-pences:  it 
rings  a  bell  when  the  cooking  is  complete,  and 
you  've  only  got  to  eat  it.  American,  of  course." 

"You  Ve  got  to  throw  in  something  extra  for 
Uncle  William,"  he  declared.  "I  wonder  if  it 's 
a  consolation  or  otherwise  to  know  for  a  dead  cert 
that  however  objectionable  your  own  relations 
are,  the  ones  you  marry  are  bound  to  be  worse. 
Two  tents — more  extravagances!" 

"The  wee  one  is  the  bed-room,  the  big  one  will 
form  a  sort  of  sitting-room  studio.  As  I  'm 
here  for  months  and  have  put  all  my  available 
capital  into  the  venture,  I  may  as  well  be  homey 
and  cosy.  A  woman  vagabond  never  travels  as 
light  as  a  man,  you  know.  It  would  be  against 
nature,  unless  of  course  she  's  all  vagabond  and 
no  woman,  and  I  am  not." 

"You  emphatically  are  not"  he  agreed,  as  he 


176  Vagabond  City 

dived  into  a  long  packing-case  and  unearthed  a 
couple  of  Paris  creations.  "For  the  birds  and 
beasts  of  the  air  to  see  and  rejoice  in?  "  he  enquired, 
holding  them  up  to  view  inside  the  larger  tent. 

"Two  hours  from  London  and  a  friend's  house 
or  two,"  she  retorted.  "One  never  knows,  and 
one  likes  to  be  prepared!  I  love  clothes  with  a 
dual  love — that  of  an  artist,  and  that  of  a  woman. 
I  've  got  to  have  them  somehow.  Will  the  tents 
stand  firm?  It's  very  exposed  here?" 

"In  any  ordinary  weather,  and  we're  not 
likely  to  have  a  gale  at  this  time  of  the  year.  I 
say,  we're  getting  on  splendidly!" 

They  were  putting  their  shoulders  to  the  wheel 
with  a  vengeance;  bringing  order  out  of  chaos, 
as  is  possible  for  people  long  accustomed  to  such 
ways  of  life,  and  soon  they  were  able  to  admire  the 
effect.  Miss  Elphenstonne  had  achieved  quite 
a  cosy  little  home:  there  was  the  big  lounge  sitting- 
room  studio,  and  beyond  it,  when  the  flap  was 
raised,  a  very  little  dainty  bed-room.  She  showed 
him  with  pride  and  delight  how  two  of  her  boxes 
made  a  chest  of  drawers,  the  other  a  wardrobe, 
adding,  "American  again." 

"Have  you  had  the  sheets  aired?"  asked  Mick. 

Miss  Elphenstonne  laughed  her  elfin  laugh. 
"Marriage  and  domesticity  have  taught  you 
something,  after  all!" 

"Sheets  must  always  be  aired,"  he  persisted, 
looking  very  wise,  "always!  These  don't  feel 
it!  Did  you?" 


The  Unexpected  Happens    177 

Miss  Elphenstonne,  whose  mother  had  died  of 
consumption,  was  supposed  to  suffer  the  incon- 
veniences of  a  very  delicate  chest.  At  the  same 
time  she  had  never  been  ill  in  her  life,  and  laughed 
at  Mick's  insistence.  "You're  positively  old- 
maidish,"  she  complained.  "The  washing  people 
will  have  seen  to  all  that." 

"Will  they?"  he  snorted.  "Anyway,  they  may 
have  got  damp  coming,  so  here  goes!"  And  he 
tweaked  them  off  the  bed. 

"Oh,  Mick,  and  after  our  making  it  so  neatly!" 

"  I  did  n't  think  of  it  then.  I  '11  get  them  aired 
at  the  cottage.  Now  come  along  and  have  supper 
with  us.  The  pie  will  have  been  kept  hot  because 
I  'm  extra  disagreeable  if  it  is  n't.  Mrs.  Hobbs 
can  cook  when  she  's  neither  getting  drunk  nor 
converted — though  me  she  treats  as  my  disreputa- 
ble profession  deserves.  She  boarded  that  awful 
Gunter  lot  and  believes  we  're  all  alike.  As  for 
you,  my  dear  lady,  you  're  just  one  worse,  an 
artist,  and  an  artist  from  Paris!  You  will  feel 
inclined  to  apologise  for  your  existence  before 
long.  Come  and  sample  her  and  her  pie." 

"But  Mrs.  Talbot ?" 

"Oh,  you  want  a  formal  invitation.  Very 
well!"  Gathering  up  the  sheets,  he  darted  out 
of  the  tent. 

"The  same  old,  impetuous  Mick,"  thought  Miss 
Elphenstonne,  smiling,  "but  married  to  a  tiresome 
woman." 

Mrs.  Hobbs  awaited  the  return  of  the  journalist 

12 


178  Vagabond  City 

with  interest.  What  excuse  would  he  make? 
These  writing-folk  were  so  good  at  lying. 

"Funny  Mr.  Talbot  should  'appen  to  'ave  a 
new  suit  on  to-day,  'im  being  so  took  aback  by 
the  lidy's  comin',"  she  observed.  "And  such  a 
little  'un  too!"  she  added  contemptuously. 

Mick  grinned  as  he  entered  to  catch  the  last 
words. 

"Who  is  your  very  odd  friend?"  Miss  Dalton 
enquired  of  him  severely. 

"We  were  the  sole  inhabitants  of  a  little  Swiss 
inn  for  three  weeks,"  he  began. 

"Ho  yus!"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Hobbs. 

"And  became  great  friends,"  he  added.  "  She 's 
called  the  Elf  because  her  real  name  is  rather  too 
large  for  such  a  small  person — it's  Isobel  Beatrix 
Halliburton-Elphenstonne,  and  one  takes  three 
breaths  and  comes  up  to  the  surface  twice  before 
negotiating  it.  She  's  an  awfully  clever,  charming 
girl — and  please  will  you  have  these  sheets  aired, 
and  ask  her  to  supper,  Muriel?  She  won't  come 
without  a  proper  invitation." 

"You  don't  siy!"  remarked  Mrs.  Hobbs  sar- 
castically. "Fancy  turnin'  particular  now!'1 

"Is  she  any  relation  to  Lord  Elphenstonne?" 
enquired  Miss  Dalton,  who  knew  the  names,  if 
not  the  faces,  of  most  members  of  the  peerage. 

"Not  near  enough  for  it  to  be  a  nuisance," 
returned  Mick  impatiently,  "or  to  count." 

"That  sort  of  thing  always  counts,"  retorted 
Miss  Dalton,  in  her  grandest  tones.  "One 


The  Unexpected  Happens   179 

naturally  prefers  one's  acquaintances  to  be  socially 
agreeable." 

Mick  cocked  a  satirical  eyebrow,  and  decided 
that  Miss  Elphenstonne  should  be  welcomed  with 
open  arms.  If  this  was  the  sort  of  thing  .  .  . 
he  ended  with  a  mental  shrug,  and  said  carelessly 
aloud,  "As  a  matter  of  fact,  her  father,  who  was 
in  the  diplomatic  service,  was  a  younger  brother 
of  Lord  Elphenstonne,  and  they  make  no  end  of 
her  at  the  Embassies." 

"Then  she's  been  presented?"  asked  Miss 
Dalton,  trying  to  sound  matter-of-fact. 

"Oh,  rather — lots  of  times!  Whenever  her 
stock  of  conversation  runs  short,  she  goes  and  gets 
presented.  Awfully  good  idea,  don't  you  think?" 
His  tone  was  quite  serious,  as  he  added  the  last 
diplomatic  touch.  "She's  fresh  from  all  the 
latest  Paris  fashions." 

"Then  she'll  know  all  about  those  sleeves!" 
exclaimed  Muriel  thankfully,  turning  to  her  aunt. 
"How  very  fortunate!  Of  course  ask  her  from 
me.  Shall  I  write  a  note?" 

Mrs.  Hobbs  found  herself  with  an  armful  of 
sheets  pushed  into  her  arms  and  a  curt  command 
to  air  them  thoroughly.  And  the  owner  came 
from  Paris— that  haunt  of  gilded  vice  of  which 
she  had  learnt  more  than  enough  from  the  Gunter 
set!  It  was  obviously  a  city  chiefly  inhabited 
by  other  wives  and  other  husbands,  dissipated 
bachelors  and  foreign  hussies,  and  if  nothing  good 
ever  went  to  it,  nothing  less  than  evil  ever  came 


i8o  Vagabond  City 

out  of  it.  And  here  was  profligacy  at  their  very 
doors,  and  being  encouraged  to  enter  them !  She 
turned  solemnly  to  Muriel — Mick  had  already  gone. 

"Mrs.  Talbot,  pause  before  it's  too  lite!" 
she  said,  in  truly  dramatic  tones.  "She's  ugly 
and  you  're  pretty,  but  prettiness  counts  in  every 
woman  but  a  wife,  and  ugliness  don't  matter — in 
the  others.  Don't  warm  a  serpint  in  your  bosom." 

But  Muriel,  looking  at  her  fair-skinned,  pretty 
reflection,  laughed.  Little,  ugly,  sallow,  elderly 
Miss  Elphenstonne  a  serpent!  The  idea  even 
found  out  what  sense  of  humour  she  possessed. 
Miss  Dalton  laughed  too.  Men  were  fools,  but 
not  as  great  fools  as  that.  Besides,  it  was  ob- 
viously one  of  those  intellectual  friendships  which 
is  one  of  the  safest  things  in  the  world. 

So,  not  because  she  was  charming,  distinguished, 
or  even  because  her  feet  were  on  the  road  to  great- 
ness, was  an  invitation  extended  to  Miss  Elphen- 
stonne, but  because  she  was  niece  of  a  peer  she 
had  never  seen  or  wished  to  see,  had  been  pre- 
sented, and  was  fresh  from  Paris  fashions! 

Mick  gave  his  wife's  message  rather  breath- 
lessly, adding,  "I  say,  Elf,  are  you  sure  you 
haven't  an  Aunt  Susan?" 

Miss  Elphenstonne  showed  her  pretty  teeth. 
"I  've  an  uncle-one,"  she  laughed. 

"Let 's  marry  'em  to  each  other?"  he  suggested 
eagerly. 

"Mine's  married.  Oh,  Mick,  you're  as  mad 
as  ever!" 


The  Unexpected  Happens        181 

"Madder!  The  madman  enjoys,  the  wise  man 
endures!  I  made  that  up  myself,  and  you  '11 
find  it  in  my  next  book.  Waste  not,  want  not, 
is  an  author's  motto." 

"I  bought  your  Woodland  Essays"  she  said 
suddenly.  "They  were  charming " 

"In  parts!"  His  face  clouded.  "They  fell 
short  most  of  the  time,  but  now  you  're  here  I 
shall  do  something  really  decent.  By  the  bye, 
did  you  also  buy  the  Doubtful  Duchess?1' 

"Of  course  I  did — and  laughed  at  its  nonsense. 
Did  you?" 

"No,  I  contented  myself  with  writing  it — a 
large  bank  balance  is  the  nicest,  warmest  cloak 
for  shame!" 

"You/"  Then  she  laughed  merrily.  "You 
bad  boy!  Mick — you  shouldn't!" 

"Go  on  laughing — it's  like  fairy  bells  ringing 
across  the  sea!  You  stole  your  laugh  out  of  Elf- 
land,  sprite!  Of  course  I  shouldn't,  but  cheer- 
fully became  the  Man  Who  Did,  just  the  same!" 

"Promise  me  to  do  something  good,  to  make  up 
for  that  hideous  travesty?" 

"But  'something  good'  doesn't  pay — the  other 
does.  At  least  has  in  this  instance.  I  Ve  come 
off  the  heights  since  you  knew  me.  It  was  a  bit 
cold  and  lonely  after  your  departure,  and  such  a 
nice  quick  roll  to  the  bottom!  It  's  rather  ex- 
hilarating— till  one  fetches  up  with  a  big,  big 
bump!" 

"Have  you  started  nothing?"  she  insisted. 


1 82  Vagabond  City 

"Well — my  Pagan  People,  but  they've  gone 
all  wrong.  So  will  Mrs.  Hobbs's  pie  if  we  don't 
run  for  it.  At  any  rate,  I  refuse  to  be  despised 
by  a  mere  gnat  like  you,  and  a  penniless  gnat, 
while  I  'm  a  plutocrat  of  safely  invested  four- 
percents.  and  know  what  real  superiority  feels  like. 
Come  on,  do ! "  He  seized  her  hand,  and,  laughing 
like  two  children,  they  ran  to  the  cottage. 

As  Miss  Elphenstonne  shook  hands  with  her 
hostess,  Mick — quite  unnecessarily — felt  sorry 
for  his  wife.  How  the  Elf  eclipsed  her,  made  of 
her  a  thing  of  naught,  put  out  even  the  beauty  she 
possessed!  And  all  the  time  Muriel  was  feeling 
sorry  for  the  other  because  she  was  so  little,  so 
odd,  so  plain.  Her  eyes  were  arresting  certainly, 
but  Muriel  did  not  admire  them:  they  only  made 
her  uncomfortable.  She  certainly  did  not  com- 
pare them,  like  her  foolish  husband,  to  the  windows 
of  a  great  soul  brooding  like  the  sea  when  it  is 
neither  grey  nor  green  nor  blue,  but  sometimes 
one  and  sometimes  all  three:  the  wild  tangle  of 
black  lashes  certainly  caused  her  a  moment's 
envy,  but  what  were  eyes  without  a  complexion 
worthy  of  the  name?  What  the  value  of  a  wealth 
of  dark  hair  turning  red  in  the  light,  when  it  was 
stained  with  destroying  grey!  How  brown  her 
skin,  how  wide  her  mouth,  and  how  often  she 
smiled — to  show  her  teeth! 

Muriel  did  not  blame  her;  she  would  have  done 
the  same  in  her  place!  Only,  what  were  perfect 
teeth  after  all  ?  People  could  buy  them  and 


The  Unexpected  Happens        183 

nobody  tell  the  difference.  A  complexion  was 
different;  that  took  no  one  in. 

Miss  Dalton,  mindful  of  a  peer  in  the  family, 
decided  Miss  Elphenstonne  was  rather  "smart- 
looking."  Her  travelling  coat  and  skirt  were 
undoubtedly  well-cut,  though  a  trifle  too  simple 
for  the  more  ornate  taste  of  the  elder  lady. 

Mrs.  Hobbs's  thoughts  would  hardly  bear  trans- 
lation. To  come  from  Paris  was  bad,  to  belong 
to  a  peer's  family  almost  worse.  In  her  eyes, 
all  those  in  high  places  who  were  not  "Royalty" 
(and  "Royalty"  were  to  be  blindly  worshipped 
as  gods)  were  "no  better  than  they  should 
be." 

An  M.  P.  was  a  man  who  "made  his  bit"  by 
"perks,"  obtained  by  pocketing  as  much  as  he 
could  of  the  country's  taxes.  He  had  his  hand  for 
ever  in  the  till,  but,  as  a  licensed  robber,  was  to 
be  respected  and  envied.  A  baronet  was  a  being 
with  bold,  black  eyes  and  a  sardonic  smile — 
(Mrs.  Hobbs  was  a  great  reader  of  "family  fiction " 
and  daily  feuilletons} — his  chief  occupation  being 
pursuit  of  beautiful,  but  virtuous,  governesses 
or  typists.  A  peer  spent  his  time  equally  between 
Paris,  Monte  Carlo,  the  divorce  court,  and  motor- 
ing over  pedestrians.  An  earl  was  a  veritable 
sink  of  iniquity,  whose  worst  doings  were  hushed 
up  by  a  bribed  press.  A  duke  was  one  with  the 
devil — and  the  devil  was  not  the  blacker;  there- 
fore what  hope  for  the  well-connected  Paris  artist 
could  there  ever  be? 


1 84  Vagabond  City 

So  was  the  "great"  Miss  Elphenstonne  weighed 
in  the  balance,  and  found  wanting! 

And  she  knew  it  too,  for  under  the  veil  of  her 
heavy  lashes,  her  eyes  twinkled  outrageously. 

This  judgment  was  to  her  rather  a  delicious 
change,  for  the  force  of  a  very  vivid  and  charming 
personality  had  made  her  greatly  sought  after 
in  many  circles — and  circles  that  counted,  both 
socially  and  intellectually.  The  daughter  of  a 
brilliant  diplomat,  received  in  the  first  instance  for 
his  sake,  but  welcomed  the  second  time  for  her 
own,  her  social  part  in  the  cosmopolitan  world 
was  of  very  considerable  importance,  and  more 
than  once  she  could  have  married  very  brilliantly 
indeed.  In  the  artistic  world  she  was  a  less 
familiar  figure  but  nevertheless  admired  both  as 
artist  and  woman. 

Esmerelda's  verdict  accorded  for  the  most 
part  with  the  other  "ladies,"  for  after  a  cool 
grunt  of  disapproval  she  moved  haughtily 
away. 

The  tiny,  exquisite  hands  of  the  artist  with 
their  vivid  movements  and  rings  of  undoubted 
value,  brought  a  frown  to  Muriel's  forehead.  "  I 
should  not  wear  bizarre  rings  like  that  myself," 
she  said  later  to  her  husband. 

He  looked  at  the  large  commonplace  hands  of 
the  speaker,  but  said  nothing. 

"It 's  so  conspicuous." 

"She  can  afford  it,"  he  said  curtly.  "She's 
lovely  hands  and  exquisite,  long,  pink  nails." 


The  Unexpected  Happens        185 

"It 's  bad  taste — and  she  must  be  very  vain  of 
them." 

"She  is — she  's  a  vain  little  person  altogether," 
with  a  deep  contented  laugh. 

"Vain!  But  of  what  beside  her  hands?"  asked 
Muriel,  in  genuine  astonishment. 

"Are  n't  we  always  the  vainest  of  what  we  don't 
possess?  "  he  asked,  with  a  grin.  So  Muriel  did  n't 
admire  the  Elf?  He  chuckled  over  the  idea  with 
inner  enjoyment.  How  like  Muriel! 

Miss  Dalton  at  once  set  herself  to  be  agreeable 
to  the  guest.  "  And  how  is  Lord  Elphenstonne?" 
she  finally  enquired,  with  genial  interest. 

The  girl  stared.     "Oh,  do  you  know  him?" 

"I  have  never  met  him  .  .  .  personally.  I  hope 
he  's  had  no  return  of  his  trouble?" 

"Has  he  a  trouble?     Is  it  his  wife,  or  his  son?" 

"Surely,  my  dear  Miss  Elphenstonne,  as  his 
niece.  ...  I  was  alluding  to  his  constant  attacks 
of  appendicitis." 

"Oh,  that's  merely  over-eating.  At  least  so 
I  have  heard.  I  don't  know  the  man  myself. 
They  say  he  's  fearfully  dull.  It  was  my  father 
that  had  the  brilliant  mother,  not  he.  He  seems 
to  have  got  all  the  family  stodge." 

Miss  Dalton  was  genuinely  shocked.  A  peer 
stodgy!  "Surely  you  take  some  interest  in  your 
relations?"  she  managed  to  gasp. 

"Why  should  I — they've  never  taken  an 
interest  in  me."  The  tone  was  rather  frosty. 
"When  my  father  died,  leaving  me  an  orphan 


186  Vagabond  City 

five  years  old,  nobody  would  take  me  in  at  any 
price.  They  were  very  shocked  because  my 
father  had  died  in  debt — possibly  they  blamed  me 
for  that  too.  Anyway,  they  blamed  my  mother 
for  being  a  nobody  and  poor — a  nobody  and  rich 
would  have  been  a  somebody,  you  see.  She  added 
to  her  crimes  by  dying  of  consumption  and  spoiling 
my  father's  joy  in  life.  So  the  cure  took  me, 
cared  for  me,  sacrificed  himself  for  me — to  meet 
with  much  scandal  when  I  grew  to  eighteen,  and 
he  was  only  sixty  or  so!  His  kind  action  quite 
prevented  him  dying  in  the  odour  of  sanctity  in 
the  eyes  of  a  certain  clique  there — though  not  a 
large  or  important  clique:  merely  powerful  enough 
to  hurt  to  the  death  the  kindest,  best  man  that 
ever  lived."  Her  voice  shook  for  a  moment,  and 
her  eyes  blazed  like  passionate,  green  jewels. 
"Then  he  died  ...  he  left  me  what  money  he 
had  to  leave,  and  I  followed  my  art  and  wandered 
about  the  world,  but  never  had  kith  nor  kin  to 
trouble  what  became  of  me.  I  never  remained 
long  enough  in  England  to  make  the  personal 
acquaintance  of  any,  though  their  criticism  of 
my  actions  has  been  detailed  to  me.  But  then 
it  takes  a  relation  to  achieve  the  greatest  im- 
pertinences .  .  .  !" 

Mick  kicked  her  warningly  under  the  table,  for 
she  was  quite  forgetting  her  audience,  and  had 
already  lost  her  temper.  She  recovered  herself 
in  a  moment  and  said  in  her  usual  voice,  "The 
dear  old  cure " 


The  Unexpected  Happens        187 

"I  trust  he  did  not  try  to  inculcate  Romanish 
heresies!"  exclaimed  Miss  Dalton. 

Miss  Elphenstonne  turned  such  a  blazing  face 
upon  the  speaker  that  Mick  created  a  diversion 
by  smashing  his  plate,  receiving  reproof,  but 
saving  the  situation. 

As  they  rose  from  the  table,  Miss  Elphenstonne 
found  herself  face  to  face  with  her  Swiss  picture, 
and  uttered  a  startled  exclamation.  "Mick — 
you!" 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  I  had  become  a  man  of 
cautious  investments?"  he  replied,  in  a  low  voice. 
"I  speculated  in  a  mine  which  turned  out  very 
much  O.  K.  and  I  speculated  in  your  picture  which 
is  going  to  be  even  more  so — and  you  know  it! 
Muriel,  whose  feeling  towards  literature,  music, 
and  pictures,  is  indifference  combined  with  dis- 
like, believes  you  pick  up  that  sort  of  stuff  by 
unknown  people — and,  by  unknown,  she  means 
all  but  a  few  big  names  that  even  she  has  heard 
of — for  the  value  of  the  frame  and  they  thank 
you  into  the  bargain.  I  prefer  she  shall  think 
it,  so  please  do  not  plunge  me  into  a  conjugal 
argument!  She  does  not  even  know  the  very 
illegible  scrawl  you  call  your  signature  has  any- 
thing to  do  with  you.  And  if  it  is  possible  to 
know  less  than  my  wife,  Miss  Dalton  wins  the 
competition."  Though  he  spoke  lightly  enough 
there  was  an  undercurrent  of  bitterness  and  disgust 
in  his  voice. 

Just  then  Miss  Dalton  herself  swept  forward, 


1 88  Vagabond  City 

and  urged  the  visitor  to  the  best  chair  and  plied 
her  with  conversational  matter.  "Then  it's  a 
long  time  since  you  were  in  England?" 

"Oh,  yes,  three  or  four  years,  I've  forgotten 
which.  I  was  in  London  last  during  the  opening 
of  'The  International  Bazaar,'  because  I  remem- 
ber such  an  absurd  person  that  came  to  the 
opening,  and  the  mayoral  luncheon  afterwards. 
He  was  one  of  the  numerous  suburban  mayors, 
I  believe,  such  a  funny,  fat,  pompous  man,  and 
he  would  shake  hands  with  the  Royal  Duke  and 
everybody  else  he  could.  He  did  not  know  I 
was  only  a  struggling  artist  without  an  income  or 
a  status,  or  I  'm  sure  he  would  not  have  insisted 
on  shaking  hands  with  me  too.  But  he  did,  and 
my  hand  fell  into  a  trough  of  warm  dough,  and  I 
could  n't  get  it  out  again  for  ever  so  long !  Yes, 
it  would  be  four  years  ago.  ...  I  spent  the 
whole  season  in  London,  but  I  've  not  seen  that 
dear  city  to  speak  to  since.  After  I  Ve  got 
through  my  work  I  hope  for  a  late  autumn  month 
before  returning  to  Paris  en  route  for — goodness 
knows  where ! ' '  She  ended  with  a  shrug  and  a  laugh. 

"What  a  strange  life!"  said  Miss  Dalton,  and 
tried  not  to  sound  disapproving.  "How  you 
must  miss  a  home,  and  all  the  sweet  influences  of 
a  home." 

The  eyes  of  the  two  friends  met,  and  a  brief 
twinkle  was  exchanged.  "Can  one  miss  what  one 
has  never  experienced?"  asked  the  artist  diplo- 
matically. 


The  Unexpected  Happens   189 

"  When  it  is  such  a  thing  as  that,"  said  Miss 
Dalton  eagerly,  "all  the  more,  I  think!" 

"Oh,  the  Elf  's  a  bird  without  any  nest!"  said 
Mick  carelessly,  as  he  handed  a  cigarette  across 
to  the  guest,  an  action  that  rather  horrified  the 
other  ladies. 

"How  awful!"  shuddered  Muriel,  for  the  words 
sounded  almost  terrible  to  her.  To  be  a  wanderer 
like  this,  no  home,  no  chance  of  marriage — for 
who  would  want  to  marry  anyone  so  queer?— 
nothing  but  a  box  of  paints?  A  bird  without  a 
nest!  How  could  the  luckless  woman  seem  so 
unconcerned  about  it,  so  resigned  to  her  fate! 

"We  're  ready  to  perch  on  any  bough,  and  let 
the  wind  swing  us  soundly  to  sleep,"  added  Mick 
gaily,  his  dark  eyes  alight.  "Bless  you,  we  like 
it !  Think  of  the  snail  with  his  house  on  his  back 
— then  think  of  the  birds  of  the  air,  and  pity  'em 
if  you  can!" 

"Are  you  calling  me  a  snail,  Mick?"  demanded 
Miss  Dalton,  in  ominous  tones. 

"Of  course  not,"  he  answered  with  more  alac- 
rity than  truth.  "I  was  only  speaking  in  meta- 
phors, meaning  by  snails  those  bound  to  the  house 
and  domestic  cares.  They  don't  get  along  very 
quickly,  poor  devils,  do  they?" 

"Of  course,  that  is  different,"  conceded  Miss 
Dalton,  somewhat  mentally  confused. 


CHAPTER  XI 

MICK  IS  LIGHT-HEARTED 

MICK  arose  next  morning  with  a  beaming 
face  and  paid  an  early  unconventional 
visit  to  Miss  Elphenstotme's  abode,  poking  his 
head  into  the  big  tent,  and  shouting  at  the  closed 
flap  beyond,  "Get  up,  you  lazy  Elf,  and  bathe  in 
the  dew!" 

"  I  hope  I  'm  not  expected  to  take  that  literally," 
returned  the  girl,  laughing  as  she  appeared  attired 
for  a  ramble,  "though  it  would  be  delightful  to 
return  to  pagan  ways  and  days." 

"There's  nothing  to  prevent  us  playing  at  it, 
at  any  rate,"  he  said  gaily.  "What  shall  we  do 
to-day?  Shall  I  lend  you  Miss  Dalton's  bicycle? 
She  's  still  asleep." 

"I'll  borrow  it  from  the  right  quarter  later 
on.  .  .  Is  that  the  pig  farm  you  were  talking 
about?"  pointing  to  the  building  in  the  distance. 

"It  is;  do  you  like  pigs?  I  Ve  learnt  an  awful 
lot  about  them  and  know  all  their  tragic  stories. 
Let 's  go  and  christen  them  accordingly." 

He  led  her  through  the  yard  and  up  among  the 
sties,  stopping  opposite  the  residence  of  a  shiny 

190 


Mick  is  Light-Hearted  191 

and  very  stout  lady-pig— though  many  might 
have  thought  stout  rather  too  mild  a  description. 

"Bow  your  hardest,  Elf,"  commanded  Mick, 
"we  stand  in  the  presence  of  rank  and  power. 
Did  you  ever  see  a  more  duchessy  duchess?  You 
know  you  never  did,  not  even  at  cattle  shows! 
This  lady  never  gives  fewer  than  seventeen  hos- 
tages to  fortune,  and  is  consequently  rated  ac- 
cordingly and  the  admired  and  envied  of  all. 
Even  Harrison  himself  kow-tows  to  her!  She 
sneers  at  the  less-successful — and  commandeers 
their  acorns.  She  does  n't  believe  in  the  latest  ideas 
of  economy.  Of  course  she  takes  precedence  of  all." 

He  stirred  the  mighty  personage  up  with  his 
stick.  "May  a  humble  admirer  wish  your  grace 
good  luck  in  all  your  ventures?" 

The  fat,  shiny  personage  grunted  contemptu- 
ously. 

"A  truly  aristocratic  scorn  for  commoners — 
but  accepts  their  acorns  graciously  enough," 
commented  Mick,  as,  in  default  of  acorns,  he 
dropped  some  collected  scraps  into  the  sty. 
With  a  jealous  glance  her  grace  raked  them 
together  and  sat  on  them. 

"A  genuine  regard  for  the  rights  of  property," 
approved  Mick,  "or  a  real  lady  at  a  real  lady's 
club  with  the  newspapers." 

"And  that  hideous  little  pig  with  the  thin  legs 
and  great,  bumpy  forehead?"  demanded  Miss 
Elphenstonne,  laughing  at  her  companion's  light- 
hearted  nonsense. 


192  Vagabond  City 

"Hush!  Your  flippancy  shocks  me!  You 
really  must  exhibit  more — outward — respect 
towards  your  betters.  No  socialism  here  if 
you  please!  This  is  no  less  than  the  duchess's 
single  daughter — and  her  forehead  is  brains,  not 
bumps.  We  call  her  the  Lady  Ever-Leaner  for 
reasons  that  are  obvious.  The  Plain  Ever- 
Leaner.  Not  beautiful;  but  intellectual." 

"The  poor  dear,"  mocked  Miss  Elphenstonne. 
"  Go  on,  oh,  foolish  one !  Soon  the  spirit  will  wave 
its  wand,  and  it  will  be  breakfast-time  and  we 
grown-up.  In  the  meanwhile  .  .  .  Who  is  the 
lovely  little  pig  in  this  sty?  She  seems  to  have 
a  great  opinion  of  herself." 

"Ah,  she  is  beauty,  not  brains — and  consequently 
may  be  permitted  to  buck  a  little!  She  's  Pretty 
Polly  Perkins,  the  belle  of  the  ball.  'Abso- 
lutely  a  nobody  my  dear,  and  so  pushing !  Really 
it 's  extraordinary  what  Society  is  coming  to  these 
days!'  There  are  whispers  of  a  high  alliance  for 
Pretty  Polly  Perkins,  and  the  Bacon-Factory  for 
poor,  plain  Lady  Ever-Leaner.  Intellect  is  'out' 
this  season,  positively  declasse.  That 's  the  Pink 
Pigling  over  there,  very  young  and  innocent — or 
with  the  genius  for  seeming  so !  Innocence  is  quite 
chic  this  year  owing  to  one  thing  and  another; 
some  people  fear  it 's  really  coming  in  again,  and 
wonder  what  they  had  better  do  about  it.  Es- 
merelda,  who  is  other  than  the  name  would  lead 
you  to  suppose,  exclaims  like  Byron,  '  Oh,  Youth 
and  Innocence!'  Oh,  milk  and  bran  mash!" 


Mick  is  Light- Hearted  193 

"You're  such  an  utter  lunatic,  Mick!"  said 
the  girl  contentedly. 

He  nodded  as  he  continued:  "The  Pink  Pig- 
ling is  a  great  rival  of  Pretty  Polly  Perkins,  and 
they  are  just  the  dearest  friends,  if  a  bit  scratchy 
at  times — in  more  senses  than  one!  Do  you  see 
that  little  one  with  the  enquiring  eye  and  inquisi- 
tive nose?  That 's  the  Unsophisticated  Pig,  a 
debutante  who  hasn't  been  'out*  very  long  and 
makes  her  elders  blush  for  her — even  Mrs.  Pink- 
Un,  who  is  thought  rather  coarse  than  otherwise. 
You  should  hear  the  Unsophisticated  one  at 
times!  'Positively,  my  dear,  says  the  most  out- 
rageous things — so  shocking  and  upsetting  to  the 
dear  curator!'  Fancy  an  Unsophisticated  debu- 
tante these  days!  Really  one  ought  to  call  her 
'  The  Survival. '  She  is  always  putting  her  foot— 
her  four  pig's  feet  I  mean — into  it;  then  they  find 
her  out  and  push,  and  say  it  isn't  fair:  she's 
taking  the  cake.  That  lady  with  the  upturned 
nose  and  rollickin'  Oirish  oi,  came  over  from 
Dublin  the  other  day  and  is  as  Oirish  as  they  make 
'em — grunts  with  an  accent  and  squanders  her 
acorns.  She 's  Mrs.  O'Grady  O'Flannagan,  and  well 
—knows  her  way  about!  That 's  the  supercilious 
Lady  Vere,  next  in  importance  to  the  Duchess; 
fifteen  and  a  half  's  her  aristocratic  average." 

"Why  a  half?" 

"Squashed!  Sat  on  him!  He  was  what  they 
call  the  darrell,  in  the  forest." 

' '  Oh,  Mick,  she  did  n't  really !    How  horrid ! ' ' 


194  Vagabond  City 

"Rather!  Invariably:  simply  can't  break  her- 
self of  the  habit;  perhaps  it  's  'bong  tong'  in 
elevated  circles;  rather  classy,  /  consider.  See 
that  wee,  funny,  little  pig  over  there?  Quite 
too  shocking  to  mention!  Dare  I,  I  wonder?" 

"You  might  risk  it,"  ventured  Miss  Elphen- 
stonne. 

"The  scandal  starts  with  the  name — 'The-One- 
Who-Was-Repudiated' ;  Repudia  for  short,  sounds 
quite  like  the  Roman  Empire,  doesn't  it?  He 
might  allow  a  real  intimate  to  call  him  Puddy. 
It 's  done,  I  believe.  Now  promise  you  won't 
be  awfully  shocked,  but  he  's  no  .  .  .mother." 

" Mother?"  exclaimed  Miss  Elphenstonne.  "No 
mother!" 

"Well,  none  that  can — or  will — be  found. 
That 's  where  the  impropriety  comes  in !  Repudia 
is  a  foundling — Harrison  found  her.  There  are 
three  ladies  seriously  involved,  if  you  must  have  all 
the  awful  details, — the  Duchess,  Lady  Vere,  and 
the  coarse  Mrs.  Pink-Un — it 's  an  aristocratic 
scandal  and  quite  unfit  for  publication — so  trying 
when  one  buys  every  paper  published.  These 
ladies  were  in  a  sort  of  three-fold  sty  with  one 
trough  and  one  slip  leading  to  it — the  letter-box, 
you  understand — when  one  morning  early  they  all 
found  themselves  proud  parents.  As  the  Duchess 
herself  said:  'Look  at  it  as  you  will,  it's  jolly 
rum!'  and  it  was!  Well,  one  of  the  ladies  found 
herself  'disgriced  somethink  cruel'  by  an  infant 
the  size  of  a  mouse.  He  was  too  small  to  sit  on 


Mick  is  Light-Hearted  195 

effectively,  because  the  more  she  tried  to  come  on 
to  him  with  a  bump  she  just  came  on  to  the 
stones,  and  found  he  'd  crept  beneath  them,  so 
there  you  are!  What  was  a  real  lidy  to  do  under 
circumstances  such  as  these?  To  'save  her  face* 
she  pushed  him  through  the  letter-box,  and  pre- 
tended she  did  n't  hear  a  faint  squeak  coming 
from  outside  the  sty.  Such  presence  of  mind! 
Never  lose  your  head  in  an  emergency,  Elf! 
Then  comes  Harrison  and  finds  the  little  darrell 
misery — like  an  unclaimed  letter — squealing  in- 
dignantly outside  his  maternal  home.  The  three 
mammas  looked  at  him  with  scorn,  disgust,  and 
amazement. 

'"Whatever  is  it?'  asked  the  Duchess,  suddenly 
very  short-sighted.  I  never  saw  anything  like 
that  before — thank  goodness!' 

'"Nor  me,  neither!'  chorused  both  the  other 
ladies,  in  one  breath. 

"  'Plebeian  blood  always  conies  out  in  the  end, ' 
said  the  Duchess,  for  everybody  knew  the  origin 
of  Mrs.  Pink-Un  was  worse  than  doubtful. 

'"It  does  that!'  agreed  Lady  Vere,  'poor  little 
bounder — still  what  can  one  expect?' 

"  '  I  call  you  both  to  witness  that  nose  bears  no 
resemblance  to  mine ! '  screamed  Mrs.  Pink-Un. 

"  'I  do  not  understand  you!'  said  the  ladies  of 
aristocratic  origin. 

"  'My  nose  never  took  an  aristocratic  turn. 
It 's  quite  short  and  straight.  That  horror's  is 
long  and  thin  and  bendy.' 


196  Vagabond  City 

"  'Words,  idle  words/  said  the  Duchess. 

"Then  Harrison  appears,  and  gives  the  Duchess 
first  chance;  she  outs  him  with  her  'hard,  hard 
hoof.'  Then  Lady  Vere — she  hurriedly  tries  to 
sit  on  him,  which  is  considered  suspicious  by  the 
other  two,  missing  him  only  by  the  narrowest  of 
shaves.  Then  Mrs.  Pink-Un  is  given  a  look-in 
— and  makes  a  shot  at  eating  him!  Harrison 
puts  him  back  time  after  time,  but  always  finds 
him  more  or  less  mangled  outside  the  letter-box. 
In  the  end,  'the  little  misfortune'  has  to  be 
reared  by  hand,  and  there  's  talk  of  selling  him 
to  a  show,  as  'the  smallest  pig  on  earth.'  If  he 
attains  that  elevated  position,  I  rather  fancy  he  '11 
have  three  claimant  mammas,  and  the  services 
of  another  Solomon  will  be  required.  Like  many 
small  people  Repudia  is  full  of  bounce,  self-im- 
portance, and  is  shockingly  egotistical — 

"Thank  you!"  interrupted  Miss  Elphenstonne, 
elevating  her  too-long  chin  and  pretending  deep 
offence. 

"And  always  running  about  and  refusing  to  take 
life  easy,"  he  continued  unmoved.  "D' yer  see 
that  rigid  looking  old  gal  yonder?  I  call  her 
Aunt  Susan,  because  she  has  n't  got  a  waist  in  the 
right  place  either." 

"Remember  I  'm  not  encouraging  you.  I  am 
really  rather  shocked." 

"Better  be  a  fund  of  amusement  than  annoy- 
ance," he  returned.  "Dessay  we'll  find  Uncle 
William  before  long.  The  houses  of  the  gentlemen 


Mick  is  Light-Hearted  197 

are  yonder.  Walk  up,  if  you  please !  Ah!  What 
about  this  Alderman-pig  for  the  great  Uncle 
William;  the  first  to  begin,  the  last  to  finish. 
We  '11  call  now  formally  on  the  young  duke. 
This  marvellous  castle  is  his,  and  he  knows  his 
own  value,  does  His  Grace!  A  fine  young  fellow, 
isn't  he?  So  pink  and  perfect  and  shiny — and 
such  a  dream  of  a  tail!  Note  the  latest  fashion 
in  curls.  Succeeded  his  brother —  Poor  chap, 
that  was  a  tragic  story  if  you  like!  He  was  no 
end  of  a  dude — no  show  considered  complete 
without  him.  Lent  cachet  to  the  most  countrified 
affair!  Got  very  fleshy — and  made  flesh  the 
fashion.  He  was  great  enough  even  for  that. 
One  hot  blazing  day  they  came  to  hang  a  trophy 
of  admiration  on  the  walls  of  his  house  and  what 
d'  yer  think  they  found?" 

"I  give  it  up,"  laughed  Miss  Elphenstonne. 

"What  do  you  think  they  didn't  find  then? 
Not  the  poor  duke,  only  grease,  and  lard,  and  low 
disgusting  things  like  that!  A  mystery  to  this 
day.  He  literally  melted  from  the  spot  and  no 
one  ever  saw  him  again.  Another  disappearance 
in  high  life — though  his,  to  do  him  justice,  was 
alone.  Well,  this  duke  became  the  heir  then,  and 
he  keeps  clear  of  too  much  flesh;  has  a  positive 
prejudice  against  it.  Has  made  it  'second-rate' 
this  season.  Pretty  Polly  Perkins,  who  is  so- 
cially ambitious,  has  hopes  .  .  .  but  competition 
is  keen.  'So  hard  to  get  the  dear  girls  suitably 
settled  these  days,  my  dear— that  tryin'  you 


198  Vagabond  City 

wouldn't  believe!'  Not  for  everybody  are  the 
acorn-leaves!  This  other  gentleman  is  also  of 
high  rank,  had  it  all  his  own  way  once,  but  has 
got  to  take  second  place  now." 

"And  that  other  group  of  sties  away  there?" 

Mick  pulled  a  long  face. 

"Alas,  little  Jimmy  and  his  ilk  live  over  there. 
Their  destiny  is  the  Hospital  where  they  are 
always  cured,  and  unlike  other  patients  never 
utter  complaints  as  to  the  doctor  who  cured  them, 
or  grumble  that  his  charges  are  excessive.  Full 
of  brine,  little  Jimmy.  Everybody  loves  him, 
even  you,  Elf — at  breakfast  time." 

"Oh,  don't ! "  she  shuddered.  "I  shan't  be  able 
to  again.  I  hope  poor  Lady  Ever-Leaner— 

"I  should  n't  be  surprised  if  after  all  her  brains 
saved  her  bacon,"  said  Mick  shamelessly. 

"I  want  to  go  home,"  said  the  disgusted  Miss 
Elphenstonne. 

"Before  hearing  about  'Mrs.  Hobbs  who's 
due  to  be  converted — into  Best  Home  Cured'?" 
Then  the  careless  insouciance  died  out  of  his  face. 
"Here's  Muriel,"  he  said  tonelessly.  "Wake 
up,  Elf,  the  fairy  wand  is  turning  us  back  again 
into  Cinderellas!" 

"Where  have  you  been?"  asked  Muriel,  after 
greeting  the  artist.  "Do  look  at  your  boots, 
Mick!" 

Miss  Elphenstonne,  turning  a  little  red,  tried 
surreptitiously  to  get  rid  of  a  vast  accumulation 
on  her  own. 


Mick  is  Light-Hearted  199 

"Among  our  fellow-kind,"  returned  Mick. 
"I  'm  sorry  I  forgot  to  leave  your  card  on  the 
dear,  fat,  cushiony  Duchess  with  a  record  of 
seventeen." 

"Seventeen  what?" 

"Infant  pigs." 

"Really,  Mick!" 

"Yes — really," — purposely  mistaking  her  tone— 
"for  once  I  'm  not  exaggerating,  and  once  it  was 
seventeen  and  a  half — The-One-Who-Was-Re- 
pudiated." 

Muriel  shrugged  hopelessly,  and  turned  to  the 
other  woman.  "Did  you  ever  know  anyone  so 
mad?"  she  demanded. 

"Nobody  can  be  wise  without  a  streak  of  folly, 
or  really  foolish  without  a  streak  of  wisdom,"  said 
Mick,  at  once.  "We  're  all  like  bacon, — streaked, 
you  know!" 

"I'm  afraid  this  Miss  Elphenstonne  won't 
help  to  sober  Mick,"  Muriel  complained  later  to 
her  aunt.  "She  seems  to  encourage  him,  if 
anything." 

"Think  of  her  bringing-up,"  returned  Miss 
Dalton.  "A  Roman  Catholic  priest,  and  then 
knocking  about  in  Paris  by  herself.  What  can 
one  expect!"  She  was  injudicious  enough  to 
voice  something  of  her  doubts  to  Mick.  "I  hope 
Miss  Elphenstonne  is  quite — quite  nice?"  she 
asked.  "Girls  like  that  get ...  ideas." 

"Awful  things  for  a  girl  to  have  in  her  head  .... 
ideas!"  retorted  Mick,  rather  rudely. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  MAKING  OF  A  COMPACT 

THE  coming  of  Miss  Elphenstonne  changed  the 
whole  face  of  the  forest  for  Michael  Talbot ; 
it  was  all  crimson  and  gold  now,  and  full  of  singing 
birds.  For  a  space  even  the  siren  voices  were 
hushed,  the  dull  ache  of  die  wanderlust  stilled.  He 
forgot  the  haunted  past  in  the  present,  and  of  the 
present  remembered  only  Miss  Elphenstonne  and 
forgot  Muriel.  The  secret  love  was  his,  and  the 
boon  of  a  perfect  companionship,  and  it  was  only 
his  good  resolutions  that  trailed  with  broken  wings. 
Save  intermittently,  his  spirits  were  of  the  highest, 
and  laughter  lurking  round  lips  and  sombre  eyes, 
made  him  good  to  look  upon. 

"  Really,  Mick,  you  make  one  think  of  the  spirit 
of  the  morning,"  said  his  friend  one  day,  "or  of 
Lucifer  before  the  fall.  What  are  we  going  to  do 
to-day?" 

"Bicycle  to  the  sea,"  he  answered,  instantly, 
"and  picnic  on  its  shores.  Here  's  Aunt  Susan's 
bicycle  for  you — she  's  got  something  wrong  with 
her  legs." 

"I  hope  nothing  serious?" 

200 


The  Making  of  a  Compact        201 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  so,  I  was  busy  getting  out 
the  bicycle  and  did  n't  listen,  sciatica  perhaps,  or 
chilblains — anyway  she  can't  use  it  for  a  day  or 
two." 

"Won't  Mrs.  Talbot  come  too,  she  rides?" 

"She  asked  you  to  excuse  her,  the  prospect  of 
your  company  did  not  allure.  I  am  a  Trial,  you 
know,  and  you  a  Problem." 

"All  right  then,"  the  girl  mounted  the  machine 
with  alacrity,  but  Mick,  seizing  her,  demanded  in 
angry  tones  what  she  was  doing. 

"Going  to  ride  it,  of  course,  silly!" 

"Down  a  hill  like  that!"  pointing  in  front  of 
them.  "You  're  not  going  to  kill  yourself  if  I  can 
help  it;  it  needs  a  pretty  expert  rider  to  negotiate 
its  twist  and  stones,  and  Muriel  and  I  shine  at  the 
art,  you  don't.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  even  I  was 
nearly  killed  once,  owing  to  the  machinations  of 
Esmerelda,  who  likes  to  get  in  the  way,  or  put  her 
snout  through  the  spokes — and  talk  of  the  devil, 
here  she  is!  No  you  don't,  Esmerelda,  our  time 
is  not  yet!"  and  he  thrust  the  indignant  animal 
back  into  the  cottage. 

"I  can  ride  down  now — don't  be  fussy,  Mick." 

"And  don't  be  reckless,  my  good  girl,"  he  re- 
strained her  forcibly.  "  I  give  you  best  at  art,  but 
you  're  no  cyclist  and  as  reckless  as  they  make 
'em!" 

They  spun  joyfully  along  exquisite  forest  roads 
coming  at  last  in  sight  of  the  sea,  and  then  by 
swift  stages  to  Fawley.  Here  they  got  off,  and 


202  Vagabond  City 

walked,  for  the  road  was  beautiful,  till  suddenly  on 
the  shore  rose  the  curious,  round,  grey  castle  of 
Calshot,  separating  Southampton  water  from  the 
Solent.  Once  the  blockhouse  of  Henry  VIII.  and  a 
place  of  great  strength,  it  is  now  only  a  monument 
of  the  need  of  a  bygone  age,  and  its  garrison  con- 
sists of  a  coastguard  and  a  master  gunner.  It  is 
said  that  it  is  the  much  discussed  Cerdices-ora 
where  Cerdic  and  his  son  landed  in  495  with  five 
ships,  and  found  ten  fathoms  of  water  alongside 
the  castle,  and  a  view  that  for  beauty  can  scarcely 
be  excelled.  Seated  together  on  the  shore  at 
Eaglehurst  they  gazed  at  the  pageant  before  them, 
and  felt  its  meaning  with  every  pulse  of  their 
blood. 

To  the  East  stretched  the  Hampshire  coast,  the 
harbour  of  Portsmouth,  and  its  long  bare  masts. 
To  the  south,  Spithead  way,  rode  the  long,  gallant 
line  of  battle-ships,  and  round  Cowes  swept  swift 
fleets  of  buoyant  yachts.  Lines  of  smoke  hanging 
above  the  narrow  strait  spoke  of  news,  or  the  mer- 
chandise of  continents,  while  overshadowing  all 
rose  the  Isle  of  Wight  hills,  soft  green  and  purple, 
and  full  of  verdant  valleys. 

"To  me  this  is  the  fairest  view  in  the  whole 
forest, "  said  Mick,  speaking  dreamily,  at  length, 
"for  the  movement  of  the  world  lies  within  sight, 
and  freedom  comes  down  to  the  shore.  I  send  my 
soul  aboard  those  crafts  and  sail  to  unknown 
ports. " 

While  Miss  Elphenstonne  stared  at  the  scene 


The  Making  of  a  Compact        203 

drinking  it  all  in,  he  lay  close  to  her  on  the  ground, 
and  counted  her  mad  tangle  of  lashes:  it  was  an 
occupation  that  never  failed  of  its  fascination  or  its 
futility,  for  she  always  looked  up  just  before  he 
had  got  to  the  end. 

"  Now  you  've  made  me  lose  my  '  place '  again ! " 
he  exclaimed,  exasperated. 

"What  do  you  mean?  Oh,  look  at  that  ship.  .  .  ! 
Why  do  the  dark  sails  seem  to  contain  all  the  magic, 
the  others  to  be  merely  beautiful?" 

"  Why  do  hatred  and  love  grow  out  of  such  small 
things?"  he  returned  inconsequently. 

"  'Life  is  too  short  for  hate',"  she  quoted,  "and 
too  strenuous.  So  I  don't  hate." 

' ' '  But  long  enough  for  love', ' '  he  returned,  finish- 
ing the  quotation. 

Her  thoughts  flew  to  a  humble,  French  grave. 
"  It  is  finished — for  me, "  she  said  curtly.  "  I  have 
my  art." 

"Is  there  nothing  you  would  put  before  it?" 

She  stared  in  genuine  astonishment.  "What 
should  there  be?  Surely,  you  don't  mean  a  man ! " 
she  laughed  amusedly.  "Oh,  you  funny  Mick! 
Why  should  I?" 

"You  might  n't  be  able  to  help  it." 

"You  forget,  I  'm  twenty-nine,  and  since  my 
guardian's  death  it 's  always  been  my  art.  I  never 
wanted  to  put  any  of  them  in  the  picture  at  all. " 

"Any  of  them!"  he  echoed  wrathfully.  "Do 
you  mean — many!"  He  glared  jealously  at  the 
absent,  dreamy  face. 


204  Vagabond  City 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  answered  indifferently, 
her  eyes  on  the  ships. 

4 '  Of  course  you  know ! "  he  said  shortly.  ' '  Why 
be  a  hypocrite?" 

"  Oh,  well,  most  of  them  are  happily  married  now, 
I  daresay,  and  very  glad  I  did  n't ! "  She  hummed 
a  gay  little  French  tune. 

' '  Glad !    They  '11  hate  their  wives ! " 

"Nonsense!  Care  differently,  that 's  all:  prob- 
ably they  Ve  all  been  '  in  love '  a  dozen  times,  and 
surely  that 's  the  wisest  way;  many  and  often  is 
the  salt  of  life.  I  'd  rather  have  three  husbands 
than  one." 

Mick  turned  so  that  he  could  clearly  see  the  sea 
mirrored  in  the  great,  grey-green  eyes,  and — so  it 
seemed  to  him — all  the  dreams  of  life  worth  while, 
there  too,  and  smiled  rather  unwillingly.  "Miss 
Dalton,  like  the  circulating  libraries,  believes  in  one 
love,  one  life,"  he  observed. 

"How  tiresome,"  said  the  other  absently. 
"Making  a  sort  of  business  of  it  instead  of  a 
pleasure — or  a  hobby.  Because  how  can  one  be 
certain  it 's  the  right  sort  of  love  till  one's  sampled 
as  much  as  possible  of  the  wrong?  And  it  might 
be  the  right  sort  of  love  for  the  wrong  person,  or 
the  wrong  sort  of  love  for  the  right  person  ..." 
she  ended,  with  a  peal  of  elfin  laughter. 

"Do  be  serious— 

"Love  is  only  a  side  issue  of  life — and  never 
serious." 

"Except  when  you  get  it  yourself." 


The  Making  of  a  Compact        205 

"Then  take  Punch's  advice  and  'Don't.'  Oh 
dear,  I  'd  forgotten  you  were  married!  Pardon!" 

"I  hadn't,"  he  said  sombrely,  "and  married 
to  the  wrong  woman,  Elf. " 

"People  often  think  that,  merely  because  they 
are  married.  She  's 

"The  wrong  woman,"  he  insisted  doggedly. 

"In  that  case  to  be  pitied  as  much,  or  more, 
than  you — don't  be  so  egotistical,  Mick!" 

' '  There  are  people  you  can't  make  into  tragedies," 
he  returned.  "Muriel  is  one  of  them.  Nothing 
goes  deep  enough — there  are  no  depths,  only  shal- 
lows: they  don't  become  submerged;  they  merely 
wade.  When  the  Water  of  Desolation  descends 
from  above,  it  runs  off  their  backs.  They  get 
temporarily  wet,  that 's  all.  Muriel  will  get  wet 
if  I  prove  that  ridiculous  thing,  a  failure." 

"  I  'm  sure  all  your  metaphors  are  mixed  and  half 
of  them  Irish  bulls,"  she  returned,  "but  it 's  too 
hot  to  think.  Why  do  you  say  that  about  failure  ? 
It  will  be  your  own  crime  if  you  do  fail — come, 
climb  up  a  bit!" 

"Come  to  the  mountain- top  with  me  then ! " 

Miss  Elphenstonne  bit  her  lips  and  spoke  a  little 
angrily.  "What  have  I  to  do  with  that  part  of 
you  ?  Every  man  must  work  out  his  own  salvation. 
In  Switzerland,  you  were  all  ambition  and  purpose. 
In  your  Woodland  Essays  the  spirit  is  there  striving 
for  expression,  but  now  you  invite  failure  by  court- 
ing it.  I  am  disappointed  in  you,  Mick!  What 
has  changed  you  so?" 


206  Vagabond  City 

"Marriage— and  to  the  wrong  woman." 

"How  you  harp  on  that  foolish  string!  After 
all,  I  'm  sure  there  's  nothing  wrong  with  marriage 
as  an  institution." 

"Better  an  institution  than  a  personal  experi- 
ment," he  retorted,  "and  there  are  a  lot  of  things 
wrong  with  it  to  my  way  of  thinking,  its  perma- 
nence for  one.  I  like  your  logic  too — you,  who 
have  avoided  the  pitfall,  and  not  entirely  for  lack 
of  opportunity,  I  fancy?" 

She  ignored  the  implied  question. 

He  tugged  at  her  dress  and  repeated  it. 

Then  her  eyes  twinkled,  and  her  vivid  smile 
flashed  out,  "I  've  often  thought  it  would  be  de- 
lightful to  be  married — intermittently,"  she  owned, 
"just  to  go  away  on  a  congenial  honeymoon  when 
holiday-time  came  round,  you  know,  and  not  too 
often  with  the  same  person!" 

Mick  joined  in  her  laughter,  then,  mindful  of 
stirring  jealousy,  said  mockingly.  "Poor  little 
thing,  it  never  had  a  chance,  it  had  n't.  Too  wee 
to  be  taken  seriously!  It  got  left,  it  did!  High 
and  dry  on  the  shelf!  And  now  it  's  nine-and- 
twenty  and  going  grey  and  ugly  and  it 's  No  Go!" 
He  tried  to  see  under  the  lowered  lashes. 

Miss  Elphenstonne  went  on  calmly  playing  with 
the  pebbles  she  had  collected. 

"How  many  were  there,  if  any?  To  think  the 
poor  dear  thing  never  got  a  chance  of  being  a 
British  matron  and  hand-in-hand  with  Mrs. 
Grundy — and  that  now,  owing  to  age  and  ugliness, 


The  Making  of  a  Compact       207 

it 's  too  late !  Even  Miss  Dalton  experienced  the 
thrill  of  an  engagement,  only  he  went  and  got  him- 
self drowned  at  sea — the  selfish  brute!  Well  it 
can't  be  helped  if  nobody  will  propose  to  it,  and  I 
can't  for  obvious  reasons.  Poor  little  has-got-to 
be-spinster!" 

Miss  Elphenstonne  was  not  smiling  now,  her 
slight  form  was  drawn  up  rather  stiffly,  "There  was 
one  when  I  was  seventeen,  and  about  one  for  every 
birthday  since,"  she  said  in  clear,  cold  tones. 

"Not  for  its  twenty-ninth  surely!"  Michael 
affected  incredulous  amazement. 

The  girl  flung  down  the  pebbles  and  faced  him 
with  an  angry  gleam  in  her  wonderful  eyes, "There 
were  two  for  that  birthday — so  there!" 

Mick  clapped  his  hands,  "Oh,  blessed  glimmer  of 
human  nature !  So  you  are  not  all  artist,  you  have 
a  feminine  weakness  here  and  there.  And  how 
many  does  your  ladyship  anticipate  for  the  next?  " 

"None, "  she  said,  a  little  gloomily.  " I  shall  be 
thirty;  later  if  I  want  one,  I  suppose  I  shall  have 
to  do  the  hunting  myself — and  I  never  could  be 
that  sort  of  a  female.  Do  you  think  Harrison 
will  invite  me  to  be  a  pig-lady?" 

"What  about  .  .  .  me?" 

' '  A  married  man !  I  am  not  that  sort  of  woman ; 
if  friendship  is  overstepped,  I  give  them  a  quick 
bonjour."  Her  mouth  hardened. 

"And  if  I  would  not  go?"  looking  at  her 
intently. 

Their  glances  encountered,  steel  meeting  steel. 


208  Vagabond  City 

"Then  of  course  /  should  do  so, "  returned  the  girl 
formally. 

"But  you  wouldn't  be  able  to;  your  worldly 
wealth  is  invested  in  three  months  here." 

Miss  Elphenstonne  digested  this  unpleasant 
truth  in  silence. 

"  Do  you  know  how  I  discovered  I  had  married 
the  wrong  woman?" 

"I  am  so  sick  of  the  'wrong  woman*.  Because 
you  were  married  to  her,  I  suppose." 

"No,  because  I  was  n't  married  to  ...  you. 
Oh,  it 's  all  your  fault,  and  you  may  as  well  know 
about  it !  I  thought  I  cared  for  you  only  as  a  very- 
dear  friend,  a  very  understanding  comrade " 

"And  you  thought  right.  The  other  idea  arose 
from  the  disappointment  of  finding  that  no  man  or 
woman  can  suit  another  in  every  need,  every 
particular " 

"Yes  they  can — if  they  are  the  one  man  and 
woman.  If  they  were  you  and  me.  I  knew  that 
the  day  I  married — if  only  I  had  known  it  five 
minutes  before!  I  never  even  guessed  what  had 
changed  the  world  for  me.  It  was  your  eyes  that 
looked  at  me  when  we  were  alone  together,  your 
face  that  haunted  me.  I  found  my  friendship  for 
you  was  love  on  the  top  of  friendship,  than  which 
love  there  is  nothing  greater — on  my  honeymoon ! 
And  when  I  tried  to  push  you  away,  Elf,  as  God 
knows  I  did  try,  having  decent  instincts  now  and 
then,  you  would  n't  go.  You  've  got  to  burden 
your  conscience  with  that,  not  mine — you  would  n't 


The  Making  of  a  Compact       209 

go !  You  never  will  go  now,  Elf, "  he  added,  with  a 
groan,  "you  Ve  become  a  part  of  me,  are  in  every- 
thing I  think  or  do.  That 's  how  I  know  you  are 
the  one  woman.  God,  if  I  were  free!  I  'd  make 
you  see  it  then,  dear!" 

Miss  Elphenstonne  stood  up,  looking  rather  tall. 
"That's  enough,"  she  said.  "Good-bye,  Mick. 
I  'm  sorry.  I  valued  your  friendship.  There  's 
no  room  in  either  of  our  lives  for  the  other  thing. 
As  we  can't  be  friends,  we  must  be  strangers." 

His  face  paled,  "What  do  you  mean?" 

"What  you  compel  me  to  mean;"  her  beautiful, 
imperious,  little  hands  waved  him  back.  "You 
have  chosen;  you  have  given  me  back  my  friend- 
ship ..."  She  turned  away. 

' '  Don't  say  that,  Elf,  don't ! "     He  spoke  huskily. 

"It 's  your  own  choice." 

"Name  your  terms  then.  You  know  I  cannot 
let  you  go,  half  a  loaf  is  better  than  no  bread. " 

"Will  you  do  your  best  to  forget  this  brief  folly, 
put  it  out  of  your  mind,  out  of  your  life,  go  back  to 
the  old  friendship?" 

"It 's  so  easy  to  forget  at  a  word,  and  conquer 
instantly  at  a  command,"  he  returned,  bitterly, 
"but  I  must  have  your  friendship.  Will  you  give 
me  that?" 

"Friendship  to  its  utmost  limits,"  she  returned 
at  once;  "now  let  us  talk  no  more  of  a  dead  folly, 
tell  me  instead  of  your  work;  what  are  you  doing 
now  and  how  is  it  getting  on?  Every  day  you  Ve 
promised  to  bring  it  with  you  and  read  to  me  what 

14 


210  Vagabond  City 

you  have  done,  but  you  always  say  you  Ve  for- 
gotten." 

He  took  a  packet  out  of  one  of  his  large,  loose 
pockets.  "Remember,  you  have  brought  the 
thing  upon  yourself,"  he  said,  unfolding  it,  "and 
that  I  want  criticism,  not  praise." 

Miss  Elphenstonne  sat  down  with  an  air  of  relief. 
She  had  dealt  swiftly  and  surely  with  more  than  one 
tiresome  man,  but  that  Mick,  her  greatest,  most 
valued  friend,  should  need  the  same  correction  was 
a  shock,  as  well  as  a  disappointment.  She  knew 
herself,  at  times  feared  herself,  and  did  not  wish 
to  be  plunged  into  the  maelstrom  of  passion.  She 
gauged  Mick's  wild,  intense  temperament  pretty 
exactly.  That  the  average  marriage  spells  dis- 
aster to  a  nature  which  is  not  meant  to  be  married 
at  all,  or  only  perfectly  married,  she  very  much 
feared.  If  only  he  had  had  a  wife  with  a  little 
more  depth,  one  capable  of  understanding,  capable 
of  making  allowances;  such  a  woman  could  have 
made  something  after  all  of  Michael  Talbot.  Her- 
self one  of  Nature's  Vagabonds,  she  understood 
what  he  must  endure,  tied  as  he  was  tied,  tormented 
with  ceaseless  siren  voices.  She  could  recognise 
his  recklessness,  since  she  had  only  to  measure  it 
with  her  own.  Neither  stood  quite  where  the  aver- 
age man  and  woman  stood,  neither  had  ever  learned 
to  count  the  cost,  and  both  were  too  old  to  learn 
now.  Such  lives  make  their  natures  for  good  or  ill 
early,  and  do  not  change,  though  they  may  modify. 

He  read  well,  and  the  girl  listened  with  frank 


The  Making  of  a  Compact        211 

delight.     "Oh,  Mick,  that  is  really  good,  almost 
great!"  she  exclaimed,  when  he  had  finished. 

"The  'almost'  of  everything,"  he  said  bitterly, 
"almost  we  succeed!  Almost  we  find  happiness! 
Almost  we  conquer  the  world — and  ourselves! 
And  in  the  end  the  world  conquers  us.  You  are 
too  merciful  though — for  this  is  not  even  one 
of  the  '  almost ' — it 's  just  a  tangle  of  wingless 
words.  The  thing  is  exaggerated,  in  caricature, 
the  sense  of  proportion  lost.  Now  this,  for  in- 
stance .  .  ."he  reread  a  passage. 

"There  is  something  wrong,"  she  agreed  thought- 
fully, "something  not  quite  true,  not  even  just. 
Don't  you  think  the  traveller's  mocking  is  al- 
most spiteful  at  times?"  and  she  suggested  a  few 
alterations. 

"How  right  you  are!"  His  strong  brown 
fingers  cast  the  MS.  in  tiny  fragments  to  the  four 
winds  of  Heaven. 

' '  Oh,  Mick,  how  could  you !  I  did  not  mean  that, 
and  in  parts  it  was  beautiful!" 

"In  parts — possibly,  but  it 's  got  to  be  beautiful 
in  whole,  since  it's  to  be  your  book,  the  work  I  shall 
lay  at  your  feet.  I  shall  call  it  The  Book  of  the  Elf, 
and  if  you  happen  to  slip  in — well  you  won't  take 
up  much  room  between  the  pages!  I  shall  start 
with  the  moonlight  scene  and  the  mad  gipsy 
woman  looking  for  the  god  Pan,  because  she  be- 
lieves that  should  she  live  through  the  touch  of  his 
burning  hoof,  he  will  make  a  little  hole  in  her  heart' 
and  pour  back  her  wandering  wits.  Only  she 


212  Vagabond  City 

must  not  scream  or  cry  out,  though  it  will  be  like 
boiling  lead,  for  thereby  she  loses  her  guerdon. 
Yet,  all  the  while,  she  knows  she  's  mad — that 's 
her  tragedy.  The  traveller  thinks  he  's  sane — and 
that 's  his  comedy.  Then,  as  she  stands  longing 
for  the  god,  yet  fearing  him  beyond  mortal  fear, 
the  storm  breaks,  and  she  covers  her  face,  terrified 
before  its  fury.  It  is  Hell  let  loose  among  the 
trees,  torturing  them,  twisting  them.  .  .  .  She 
looks  up  with  a  moan,  as  a  hand  touches  her,  into 
the  evil  face  of  the  man-brute  who  has  haunted  her 
and  whom  she  has  feared  all  her  days !  Her  beauty 
has  drawn  him,  and  he  cares  naught  for  storm,  or 
right,  or  wandering  wits,  but  is  filled  with  a  ruthless 
exultation  that  at  last  the  woman,  whose  beauty 
has  touched  him  too  with  demon  madness,  is  in  his 
power.  .  .  .  Then,  as  he  catches  her  shrinking 
wrist,  the  earth  rocks  before  a  mighty  clap  of 
thunder;  there  comes  the  crashing  of  trees,  even 
the  moonlight  is  set  on  fire,  and  the  world  eaten  up 
by  flames;  so  that  there  is  only  fire  and  darkness 
left. 

"The  woman  feels  a  terrible  burning  on  her  arm, 
and  the  mad  creature,  thinking  of  the  god  Pan, 
sets  her  teeth  to  bear  the  agony.  Alas !  The  pain 
is  too  great,  and,  with  a  scream  of  utter  despair, 
knowing  she  has  failed  before  the  test,  she  falls  on 
her  face,  as  one  dead.  When  she  comes  to  herself, 
the  storm  is  over,  there  is  a  great  stillness,  a  great 
peace,  and  dawn  is  splashing  between  the  trees. 
By  her  side  is  what  has  once  been  the  man  of  her 


The  Making  of  a  Compact       213 

fear — a  blackened,  twisted  thing.  On  her  own 
arm  her  sleeve  is  charred  away  and  a  great,  ago- 
nising burn  disfigures  it.  But  how  joyfully  she 
bears  the  pain,  since  the  god  has  touched  her  and 
made  her  clean!  The  shock  and  the  burning 
have  restored  the  wits  that  a  shock  stole  away, 
wise  men  tell  her,  but  she  laughs,  knowing  better 
than  all  their  wisdom,  for  she  has  felt  the  burning 
hoof  of  the  great  god  Pan  and  lived !  She  knows 
now  that  the  man-brute  has  not  been  wicked,  only 
mad,  and  tells  the  traveller — who  alone  agrees  with 
her — all  her  story.  That 's  the  idea  for  the  first 
chapter.  Now  to  set  it  down  so  that  it  will  not 
seem  ridiculous. "  He  wrote  busily  for  some  time. 

Miss  Elphenstonne  cast  a  relieved  glance  at  his 
absorbed  face.  "This  is  the  man  I  know — the  real 
man,"  she  assured  herself,  "the  other  was  only  a 
passing  phase." 

At  last  Mick  laid  down  his  pencil  and  crammed 
the  loose  sheets  of  paper  back  into  his  pocket. 
"I've  got  cramp,"  he  said,  "and  I've  got  an 
appetite  with  an  edge  to  it !  '  Genius  has  burned ! ' 
Now  for  grub. "  He  unstrapped  the  basket  from 
his  machine  and  proceeded  quickly  to  get  a  meal 
ready.  He  was  very  speedy,  very  handy. 

"You  're  in  your  right  element  now,  O  Vaga- 
bond of  many  adventures!"  Miss  Elphenstonne 
said  approvingly. 

"Adventures,    there    have    been    those    right 
enough,  some  I    wish   there  had  n't  ...  now— 
Elf."     His   face   darkened  with  regret,  and   he 


214  Vagabond  City 

turned  quickly  away  from  young  Gore's  pleading 
eyes,  eyes  never  more  vivid,  never  more  alive,  than 
when  they  were  dead.  "To  have  missed  out  only 
one!"  he  cried  passionately. 

"You  mean — the  desert?"  she  asked,  with  a 
shudder,  for  he  had  kept  nothing  back  from  her. 
She  knew  the  worst  of  him  as  she  knew  the  best. 

"I'm  a  haunted,  hunted  man,  and  shall  be 
haunted  as  long  as  I  live,  in  dying,  in  death — !  No 
words  can  measure  the  agony  of  it.  And  it  was  my 
own  work. " 

"Oh,  Mick,  whatever  you've  done,  you've 
paid." 

"Every  day  of  my  life,  I  pay,  but  something  tells 
me  it  isn't  enough,  never  will  be  enough,  that  I 
shall  drink  of  my  cup  not  once  but  a  hundred 
times. " 

"You  are  morbid,  we  will  forget  the  past;  I 
forbid  you  to  think  of  it  in  my  presence !  All  that 
you  have  seen  and  done  is  not  grey,  only  a  tiny 
proportion  of  it.  Tell  me  instead  of  all  the  gay 
processions  of  life  you  have  witnessed  that  I  have 
yet  to  see.  What  a  vast  crowd  of  humanity, 
Mick ;  driven  humanity,  perhaps,  some  of  it.  All  of 
them  travelling  their  little  separate  paths,  all  of 
them  thinking  them  so  important — and  only  God 
knowing  their  end!  I  hate  to  think  of  valiant 
travellers  falling  by  the  way,  of  the  pitiful  close, 
the  waste  of  great  endeavours  uncompleted,  un- 
fulfilled." Her  eyes  grew  very  tender  and  soft 
and  wistful,  and  Mick's  gaze,  fastened  on  her, 


The  Making  of  a  Compact       215 

seemed  to  read  the  procession  she  mirrored  there. 
''Such  babies,  too,  in  the  army,  Mick,"  she  said 
pitifully,  "with  such  tired  little  feet— I  'd  like  to 
carry  them  all!" 

He  laughed  in  rude  derision,  "  You  carry  even  a 
full-sized  baby,  midget!  Well,  don't  let  me  catch 
you  at  it,  that 's  all !  But  you  are  right, "  he  added 
gravely,  "it  has  got  to  make  one  sad,  that  long 
procession,  so  many  would  gladly  drop  out  if  they 
could,  or  dared.  A  long  weary  march  of  weary 
feet,  some  in  the  sun,  infinitely  more  in  the  shade, 
and  the  close  of  the  road  hidden  by  the  mist 
of  hope — most  mercifully  hidden,  Elf!  Rather  a 
tragic  army  in  spite  of  its  gay  flags,  with  you  and 
me  there  somewhere  marching  on,  not  knowing  the 
end.  You,  with  a  gallant  flag  waving  before  the 
world,  and  I,  with  mine — furled  ..."  and  he 
ended  with  a  bitter,  dreary  laugh. 

"Don't,"  she  exclaimed.  "You  make  me  feel 
sad  when  I  only  want  to  be  glad,  and  it 's  such  a 
wonderful  golden  day  and  we  have  the  sea  and  the 
ships  ahead — and  the  cold  chicken!" 

"Bathos!"  he  exclaimed,  "and  an  awful  pro- 
blem— how  are  we  going  to  carve  it?  Shall  we 
take  a  leg  each  and  pull,  you  don't  mind  being 
uncivilised,  do  you?" 

"I  do  in  ways  such  as  these,  when  they  can  be 
helped,  and  I  saw  the  knives  and  forks  under  the 
basket.  Let 's  be  civilised. " 

"You  civilised — with  those  sea  eyes  of  yours! 
Tell  me  something  I  can  easier  believe.  You  're 


216  Vagabond  City 

not  and  you  don't  want  to  be,  you  are  as  pagan  as 
The  Book  of  the  Elf  is  going  to  be!  What  do  we 
owe  to  civilisation  when  it  comes  to  fundamental 
things?  It  has  given  us  morality  instead  of  human 
nature — but  even  that  is  not  always  the  success  it 
ought  to  be." 

' '  Don't  let f s  get  abstruse,' '  she  implored.  ' '  Give 
me  some  chicken  instead. " 

After  they  had  finished  a  hearty  meal,  she  com- 
manded him  to  read  what  he  had  re-written. 
"But  first  bury  the  remnant  of  chicken,"  she 
begged.  "It  looks  so  indecent  in  its  inadequate 
covering  of  flesh — and  one  hates  to  be  reminded  of 
the  finished  feast.  Oh,  Mick,  you  did  most  of  it, 
did  n't  you?" 

"All  save  a  wing,  a  leg,  and  a  few  slices  of 
breast,"  he  retorted,  as  he  hid  it  out  of  sight. 
"Do  you  really  want  me  to  read  the  new 
effort?" 

She  listened  to  his  deep,  pleasant,  tuneful  voice 
with  sparkling  eyes.  "The  same — with  all  the 
difference  in  the  world!"  she  exclaimed,  when  he 
had  finished.  "I  cannot  criticise  that,  for  it  is 
great.  Mick,  you  have  everything  before  you; 
promise  you  will  never  turn  back!  How  dare  you 
talk  of  freedom  lost  when  you  possess  that  freedom 
whose  gift  is  the  key  of  the  whole  world !  What  do 
personal  things  matter — none  can  take  away  your 
store!  Care  for  nothing  else,  live  for  nothing  else, 
go  on,  and  always  on,  follow  your  star,  fulfil  your 
destiny ! "  Her  words  rang  out  like  a  great  clarion 


The  Making  of  a  Compact        217 

call  to  high  endeavour,  challenging  fate  itself,  and 
her  eyes  glowed  with  the  light  of  obsession. 

But  Mick  sighed.  "The  key  that  can  unlock 
that  golden  store  is  not  in  my  keeping, "  he  said, 
"but  your  book,  at  least,  shall  be  all  you  would 
have  it  be,  though  Heaven  knows  I  am  no  genius. " 

"But  your  talent  is  great,  and  it  will  be  the 
easier  to  succeed  without.  Genius  is  a  master,  not 
a  servant, "  she  broke  off,  impatiently. 

"But  a  master  worth  serving — you  should  know 
that !  If  I  had  as  much  in  my  whole  body  as  you 
have  in  your  little  finger  .  .  .  sometimes  I  can 
hate  you  for  it  .  .  ." 

"Be  more  impersonal,  your  happiness  and  your- 
self do  not  really  matter;  that  comes  or  goes  as  it 
is  written  it  shall,  and  though  all  of  us  can  change 
the  road,  few  of  us  can  change  the  end  .  .  .  only 
your  work  is  your  own,  to  make  or  mar  with 
such  tools  as  you  have  been  given.  You  can 
carve  your  own  destiny  and  thank  God  for  it — 
but  it  is  genius  that  carves  you  ..."  and  she 
hid  her  eyes  for  a  moment  in  something  like 
fear. 

"For  genius,  happiness  is  bound  to  matter,"  he 
contested  hotly,  "for  it  feels  a  thousand  times 
more." 

"Then  it  must  tread  down  Satan  under  its  feet, " 
cried  the  girl  hoarsely.  "It  must  take  the  wider 
view.  When  is  it  born  of  happiness,  of  content? 
Are  those  satisfied  to  stand  still,  possessed  of  it? 
You  know  the  answer  to  that.  Genius  is  progress 


218  Vagabond  City 

in  the  highest  sense  of  the  word — and  progress 
marches  over  the  bodies  of  the  slain.  ..." 

He  caught  her  hand,  gripping  it  tenaciously. 
"Don't  march  so  fast,  Elf, "  he  implored.  "Your 
race  is  too  swift  for  me,  and  I  am  being  left  behind, 
my  dear.  I  bow  to  your  Master — but  I  hate  him, 
too.  He  is  going  to  stand  between  us  as  he  always 
must,  between  man  and  woman  when  only  the 
woman  has  it.  No  wings  for  me,  just  a  sense  of 
words,  an  excellent  talent.  I  ride  my  horse  while 
your  wings  whirl  you  through  space  beyond  my  ken. 
Oh,  Elf,  don't  be  so  keen  to  break  away!  After  all, 
the  laurel  leaves  have  proved  a  crown  of  thorns  ere 
now.  .  .  .  The  thing  is  a  curse,  it 's  draining 
your  life,  your  happiness,  your  youth  ...  it 
is  a  Moloch  which  can  never  be  satisfied,  whose 
pitiless  watchword  is  always  'More!'" 

"  If  it  exacts  its  sacrifices,  I  am  willing.  We  pay 
for  everything.  I,  at  least,  shall  pay  for  that 
which  is  worth  while. " 

"It  is  killing  your  womanhood." 

"I  hope  so."     She  set  her  teeth. 

"But  it  is  not  dead  for  all  that — it  will  rise  again 
and  stronger  than  ever,  and  what  then,  Elf,  what 
then?  How  many  times  can  one  tread  down  Satan 
under  one's  feet?" 

"Unto  seventy  times  seven — and  seventy  times 
seven  again!"  she  answered  passionately,  and  Mick 
said  no  more. 

They  rode  home  slowly  in  the  sunset,  very  silent, 
both  faces  grave,  and  paused  for  a  moment  as  they 


The  Making  of  a  Compact        219 

passed  the  churchyard,  perched  at  the  top  of  a 
steep  flight  of  steps,  to  note  how  the  poppies  had 
stolen  from  the  neighbouring  cornfield  to  riot  here 
and  there  among  the  graves. 

"How  gay  they  are,"  said  Miss  Elphenstonne. 
"One  cannot  remember  death.  Look  how  they 
dance  and  curtsey  in  the  breath  of  every  wind !  I 
should  like  to  be  buried  where  poppies  blow,  when 
my  long  journey  comes  to  a  close.  Let 's  stop  for 
a  moment  longer." 

But  Mick,  his  face  very  dark  indeed,  had  al- 
ready drawn  her  away.  "Haven't  we  been  sad 
enough?"  he  demanded  harshly,  a  sudden  horror 
in  his  eyes.  ' '  Those  steps  have  a  hateful  and  awful 
fascination  for  me.  It  must  be  so  difficult  to  carry 
a  coffin  up  ...  and  when  the  rain  keeps  falling 
on  it.  ..." 

"Who  is  being  morbid  now?"  demanded  Miss 
Elphenstonne.  "Really,  Mick.  And  you  always 
used  to  make  me  laugh !  I  much  prefer  the  jester 
to  the  pessimist.  Oh,  let 's  laugh  while  we  can,  and 
eat,  drink,  and  be  merry  lest  to-morrow  we  die !  If 
you  knew  how  I  dreaded  death  coming  and  inter- 
fering! One  can  fight  every  circumstance,  but 
one  must  lay  down  one's  arms  before  death.  To 
die  with  what  one  might  have  done,  would  have 
done,  unfinished!  I  simply  dare  not  let  myself 
think  of  it.  Oh,  fate,  send  me  health,  and  strength, 
and  length  of  days,  and  whatever  the  burden, 
whatever  the  heat  of  the  day,  I  will  endure  to  the 
end !  Mick,  I  've  got  the  picture  to  show  you.  Oh, 


220  Vagabond  City 

help  me  finish  it ! "  She  caught  at  his  hand,  and  he 
nodded  his  head,  but  did  not  speak.  Her  strength 
wa£  so  terrible,  he  feared  it  for  her.  The  rack  was 
nothing  to  her,  only  death  appalled. 

Just  then,  Mrs.  Hobbs,  coming  round  the  curve 
of  the  road,  found  them  standing  hand  in  hand  by 
the  churchyard  steps,  looking  at  each  other  with 
an  expression  which  baffled  her,  but  which  she  con- 
cluded must  be  the  acme  of  evil  itself.  She  gave 
them  the  gratified  glance  of  one  who  has  foretold 
the  worst  and  is  going  to  be  found  a  prophet,  not 
without  honour  in  her  own  country.  She  had  her 
use,  however,  for  laughter  broke  suddenly  from 
Mick,  and  he  dropped  the  girl's  hand  and  mounted 
his  machine.  "Now  her  eyes  will  bore  into  our 
backs,  and  make  us  feel  deliciously  wicked,"  he 
said.  ' '  Can't  you  feel  it  ?  " 

"I  can  indeed!"  cried  Miss  Elphenstonne,  the 
shadow  passing  from  her  face.  ' '  What  a  character 
she  is !  You  must  use  her,  Mick ! ' ' 

"  I  'm  sure  she  reproaches  Heaven  in  her  prayers 
that  fire  delays  so  long  to  consume  us!  You,  an 
artist,  from  Paris,  related  to  a  peer !  I,  a  journalist 
and  successful  whisky-hider.  What  health  can 
there  be  in  either  of  us?  Well,  here's  your  tent. 
Now  for  the  mysterious  picture.  Don't  be  angry 
if  it 's  too  deep  for  me. " 

"It 's  only  just  begun,"  she  said  unveiling  it, 
"but  what  does  it  make  you  think  of  so  far?" 

"A  mist — no,  a  shadow, "  he  answered  at  once. 

"  Oh,  Mick,  thank  you  for  seeing  so  soon,  for  it 's 


The  Making  of  a  Compact        221 

hardly  started !  It 's  the  thing  that  is  to  make  or 
mar  me,  for  it  represents  my  highest  effort,  and  if  it 
fails  there  will  be  none  to  blame  but  myself — and 
my  own  limitations.  You  know  the  lines  'The 
Shadow  cloaked  from  head  to  foot  that  keeps  the  keys 
of  all  the  creeds'?" 

He  nodded. 

"That 's  the  title.  I  want  to  show  how  many 
and  little  and  foolish  are  creeds,  and  how  great  the 
mystical  shadow  that  dwells  behind  with  the  at- 
titude of  him  of  whom  it  is  said, '  /  sit  as  God  holding 
no  creed,  but  contemplating  all. '  There  's  to  be  the 
great,  arresting,  veiled  form  looking  almost  puz- 
zled, certainly  with  pity,  on  the  heavy,  curious 
keys  of  a  thousand  creeds.  The  keys  will  be  of 
different  workmanship  but  of  the  same  size — be- 
cause each  is  the  faith  of  a  man — the  so-called 
heathen,  twin  with  the  so-called  Christian.  It 's 
a  big  subject,  perhaps  too  big  for  me,  but  only 
time  will  show :  at  least  it 's  got  to  be  done.  I  've 
dreamed  of  it  day  and  night  for  years,  seen  it  so 
plainly,  yet  perhaps  in  the  doing  of  it  I  shall  fail; 
inspiration,  without  which  there  is  no  great  art, 
will  hide  its  face  from  me.  Suppose  I  make  just 
a  chocolate  box  of  it,  Mick,  just  a  well-painted 
'clever'  picture?"  Her  mouth  twisted  in 
anguish. 

"You  will  make  it  as  great  as  mortal  can,"  he 
exclaimed,  positively.  "It  will  mean  the  laurel 
crown  of  immortality,  Elf." 

And  such  indeed  it  was  one  day  to  mean. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

MR.  HIGGINS  AT  HOME  AND   ABROAD 

"TTALKING  about  holidays,"  said  Mr.  Higgins 
1  inaccurately,  since  they, — or  rather  he, — 
had  been  holding  forth  on  the  delinquencies  of  the 
County  Council,  "I  always  think  there  's  a  great 
deal  in  my  own  original  idea — that  husband  and 
wife  should  take  them  separately.  My  argument 
is  this:  a  hard-working  man  requires  a  thorough 
rest  and  change." 

"Y-e-s,"  agreed  Mrs.  Higgins,  albeit  with  re- 
luctance. She  dared  not  seem  pleased  at  the  pro- 
spect of  her  annual  freedom,  or  Mr.  Higgins  would 
immediately  platitudinise  on  the  "oneness"  of 
husband  and  wife,  and  insist  on  her  accompanying 
him.  That  had  happened  once,  and  Mrs.  Higgins, 
doomed  to  the  day-long  company  of  her  pompous 
lord,  had  not  found  the  change  at  all  beneficial. 
If  he  needed  a  rest  from  a  woman  who  had  no 
other  significance  in  his  mind  than  that  of  the  in- 
ferior vessel,  who  saw  to  all  his  comforts,  as  a  duty 
and  a  pleasure,  the  far  from  enviable  lady,  for  all 
her  husband's  wealth,  required  a  rest  to  enable  her 
to  continue  to  endure.  It  was  not  that  she  actually 

222 


Mr.  Higgins  at  Home  and  Abroad    223 

disliked  her  husband,  though  he  got  very  much  on 
her  nerves,  and  there  were  times  when  she  got 
much  secret  amusement  out  of  him;  but  she  was 
a  small,  delicate,  highly-strung  woman,  and  his 
loudness,  his  immensity,  his  vast  egoism  and  pom- 
posity wore  her  out.  The  annual  holiday  in  her 
mother's  very  quiet  abode  was  a  thing  she  looked 
forward  to  from  year's  end  to  year's  end,  and  she 
had  never  forgotten  the  martyrdom  of  the  holiday 
in  company  with  her  husband. 

She  laid  down  her  work,  and  bent  her  meek 
smooth  head. 

"I  suppose  it 's  the  eternal  spirit  of  bachelor- 
hood," she  sighed. 

"  Not  at  all,  Jane,  not  at  all!"  returned  Mr.  Hig- 
gins, preening  himself.  "There  's  no  cause  for  you 
to  be  jealous." 

"I  know, "  said  Mrs.  Higgins,  grim  irony  in  her 
downbent  eyes.  ' '  But  you  're  a  fine  man,  William , 
a  man  of  the  world  too.  .  .  ."  She  ended  with  a 
doleful  sigh. 

This  comedy  was  gone  through  annually;  it 
made  Mr.  Higgins  very  pleased  with  himself,  and 
very  determined  to  take  his  holiday  alone.  It  also 
ensured  his  coming  back  in  good  temper. 

He  patted  her  condescendingly  on  the  shoulder. 
' '  You  need  have  no  fear,  Jane.  What  you  say  may 
be  true  or  it  may  not  be. " 

"Oh,  William!"  she  interrupted,  as  expected. 

"  But  I  am  not  the  sort  of  man  to  forget  my  legal, 
wedded  wife. " 


224  Vagabond  City 

"Perhaps  not,"  she  owned,  "but  I  feel  sure  you 
must  have  the  most  awful  flirtations  at  these  gay 
places  you  stay  at.  .  .  ."  She  hoped  she  had 
now  thrown  sufficient  sops  to  dare  to  venture  to  the 
point.  "  Where  did  you  think  of  going,  this  time?  " 

"Not  very  far,"  he  said  consolingly. 

Her  face  did  not  fall ;  she  did  not  allow  it  to. 

"What  do  you  say  to  my  looking  up  the  love- 
birds in  their  nest?" 

"Do  you  mean  Muriel  and  Mick?" 

"Of  course  I  mean  Muriel  and  Mick.  I  shall 
go  to  Totton  station,  drive  straight  up  to  them  for 
tea,  and  have  a  look  round  their  little  place,  while 
the  trap  is  put  up  in  the  village.  Then  I  will  drive 
to  the  Compton  Arms  at  Stony  Cross — it 's  not 
far — and  stay  there  for  a  bit,  and  from  there  grad- 
ually do  the  round  of  the  forest,  staying  at  the 
various  hotels  and  working  back  to  Stony  Cross 
on  a  farewell  visit." 

"It  will  be  a  very  unexpected  treat  for  them," 
said  Mrs.  Higgins.  "I'm  sure  Muriel  will  be 
delighted." 

"It  will  give  me  a  chance  of  seeing  whether 
there  's  anything  in  her  husband,  or  not ;  he  really 
seems  to  have  done  quite  well — for  a  trade  like 
that.  I  may  be  away  some  time,  but  I  '11  let  you 
know  the  day  to  get  back  here  and  have  the  house 
ready  for  me." 

"They  say  the  autumn  tints  in  the  forest  are 
wonderful,"  said  Mrs.  Higgins  eagerly— perhaps  a 
little  too  eagerly. 


Mr.  Higgins  at  Home  and  Abroad    225 

"  Oh,  I  do  not  know  that  I  shall  stay  as  long  as 
that,"  he  said,  at  once.  "My  duties  may  not 
permit  it." 

Mr.  Higgins  was  not  so  indispensable  as  he 
thought,  as  his  wife  knew;  but  it  would  not  have 
been  her  policy  to  hint  at  anything  of  the  sort. 
She  only  sighed  pityingly  instead. 

"Of  course  I  may  manage  it,"  he  said  more 
eagerly.  "After  all,  there  's  no  reason  why  a 
public  man  should  be  the  slave  of  the  public." 

He  spoke  as  one  who  governed  a  province. 

Then  he  wrote  a  characteristic  letter  to  his  niece 
Muriel,  who  pounced  upon  it  with  delight,  on  its 
arrival. 

"From  Uncle  William!"  she  said  to  Mick. 

"What  does  he  want?" 

"Oh,  he's  coming  to  see  us — how  splendid! 
What  a  chance!  We  must  not  miss  it,  Mick!" 

"Which  of  the  suites  is  to  be  prepared  for  his 
reception?"  demanded  Mick,  with  an  ironic  twist 
of  his  lip.  "  The  back-kitchen?  " 

"  Don't  be  silly,  he  's  not  coming  to  stay.  You 
forget  he  's  accustomed  to  every  luxury;  a  place 
like  this  would  not  be  suitable.  He  's  going  to  the 
Compton  Arms  at  Stony  Cross  to  start  with,  and 
is  going  to  'do'  the  forest  thoroughly  from  every 
direction.  He  says  he  will  drive  up  here  from 
Totton  for  tea,  and  then  go  on  to  Stony  Cross  for 
dinner,  that  he  '11  spend  an  hour  or  so  looking 
round  the  cottage,  and  will  you  be  at  the  station 
to  meet  him,  and  see  there  's  a  trap?" 


226  Vagabond  City 

"An  hour  for  the  shooting-box!  Let  me  see: 
that 's  twenty  minutes  apiece  for  kitchen,  bedroom, 
dressing-room,  and  back-kitchen — he  might  try  a 
bath  there  if  he  finds  himself  with  any  spare  time. 
You  once  expressed  a  wish  that  he  should,  you  may 
remember." 

"And  Mick  .  .  .  pay  for  the  trap;  he  likes 
that  sort  of  thing." 

"Hadn't  I  better  buy  him  something  at  the 
same  time?  What  about  apennorth  of  humbugs 
done  up  in  pink  paper,  or  a  button  for  the  bottom 
of  his  waistcoat,  where  relations  seem  strained. 
Or  a  wreath  of  roses  to  drape  round  the  mayoral 
brow.  Let 's  have  a  triumphal  procession  while 
we  are  at  it !  Remember  he  's  our  benefactor  and 
worth  five  hundred  thousand  pounds  and  a  possible 
peerage.  Let 's  do  the  thing  in  style!1' 

"Don't  be  silly,  Mick — besides  he  wouldn't 
like  you  to  give  him  things !  Oh,  I  do  hope  you  '11 
get  on  together.  You  '11  do  your  best,  won't  you?" 

"You  leave  it  to  me,"  said  Mick,  "and  don't 
worry!" 

But  perhaps  the  much-tried  Muriel  might  be 
excused  for  worrying  just  the  same.  So  much  de- 
pended on  Mick,  and  on  his  behaviour.  If  Uncle 
William  thought  he  was  a  "waster, "  he  would  be- 
stow no  further  benefits,  and  perhaps  leave  the 
waster's  wife  out  of  his  will.  If,  on  the  other  hand, 
he  could  be  blinded  as  to  the  real  Mick,  and  see 
only  the  ideal,  he  might  prove  a  rich  relation  worth 
having!  But  Mick  was  so  rude,  so  brusque,  so 


Mr.  Higgins  at  Home  and  Abroad    227 

blind  to  his  own  advantage.  He  would  n't  care 
whether  the  great  man  liked  him  or  disliked  him. 
He  had  no  reverence  for  anything,  not  even  great- 
ness; he  was  quite  capable  of  making  fun  of  Mr. 
Higgins  to  his  face ;  he  was  capable  of  any  enormity ! 

"If  I  could  trust  you  this  once!"  she  wailed. 

"  You  leave  it  to  me,"  he  said  again,  and  she  had, 
perforce,  to  leave  it. 

She  hoped  for  the  best,  but  did  not  expect  it. 
Probably  the  two  men  would  arrive  at  daggers 
drawn.  Then  Mr.  Higgins  would  say  he  had 
prophesied  disaster  all  along,  that  Muriel  had  no 
right  to  have  married  such  a  person,  that  he  had 
warned  her  (not  that  he  had),  and,  since  she  had 
made  her  own  bed  must  lie  upon  it.  Then  he 
would  shake  the  dust  off  his  feet,  and  the  rest  would 
be  silence.  There  would  be  no  further  favours,  no 
mention  in  the  will.  The  poor  woman  fretted 
herself  almost  ill.  If  only  Uncle  William  had  sug- 
gested her  meeting  him,  instead  of  the  mad  Mick! 
But  he  had  asked  for  Mick,  and  would  be  offended 
beyond  words  if  Mick  was  not  there.  He  made  it 
plain  that  he  wanted  to  take  the  long  drive  in 
company  with  his  nephew-by-marriage,  to  discover 
if  there  was  "anything  in  him."  And  he  would 
discover  there  was  everything  there  should  n't 
be! 

While  Muriel  awaited  the  worst,  Mick  went  off 
cheerfully  to  Totton,  apparently  quite  oblivious  of 
the  critical  importance  of  the  forthcoming  drive 
and  visit,  his  thoughts  dwelling  on  Miss  Elphen- 


228  Vagabond  City 

stonne,  and  not  at  all  on  the  vast  Uncle  William. 
It  might  have  been  quite  an  everyday  affair,  as 
Muriel  said.  It  was  an  everyday  affair — albeit  a 
boring  one!  The  graceless  Mick  even  mentally 
arraigned  the  mighty  visitor  as  "that  fat  old 
blighter"  or  "awful  bounder"  and  didn't  care  in 
the  least  whether  he  found  favour  in  his  sight  or 
not,  but  remembered  he  had  practically  promised 
Muriel  to  be  on  his  best  behaviour;  he  meant  to  be 
so,  as  far  as  it  was  possible. 

On  the  station  platform  he  found  the  suet-pud- 
ding lady  with  the  long  husband,  and  greeted  both 
warmly.  "I  'm  meeting  a  relation  by  the  London 
train, "  he  volunteered. 

"We  're  waiting  for  our  boy  from  school,"  said 
the  mother,  her  face  lighting  up,   "and  do  hope 
he  won't  have  got  into  mischief  on  the  way, "- 
adding,  with  a  wrinkle  of  laughter,    "He  often 
does." 

"Always,"  said  the  pessimistic  father,  but  he 
seemed  rather  proud  of  the  fact  than  otherwise. 
"He  's  the  most  mischievous  boy  in  the  school." 

"But  the  cleverest  and  most  popular,  and  has  no 
real  harm  in  him,"  added  the  mother  quickly. 
"Here  's  the  train.  Oh,  dear,  what 's  he  doing  in 
a  first-class  carriage " 

"And  to  that  fat  man?"  concluded  the  long, 
lean  man  helplessly.  "I'm  sure  he's  put  out 
with  Tom." 

"That  's  my  relative,"  said  Mick,  and  opening 
the  carriage  door  he  hustled  out  the  grinning  boy, 


Mr.  Higgins  at  Home  and  Abroad    229 

who  was  swept  away  out  of  sight  by  his  adroit 
parents,  before  the  great  Mr.  Higgins  alighted. 

"I  travelled  down  with  an  abominable  little 
boy, "  said  Mr.  Higgins,  very  red  and  angry.  "  He 
had  no  respect  at  all  for  his  betters,  and  no  first- 
class  ticket.  He  just  changed,  and  behaved  in  the 
most  impertinent  manner.  ..."  Mr.  Higgins 
broke  off  here,  for  it  was  humiliating  to  think  of 
the  terms  in  which  the  appalling  child  had  ad- 
diessed  him,  and  how,  when  Mr.  Higgins  had  at- 
tempted personal  chastisement,  the  little  horror 
had  butted  him  violently  in  the  stomach  in  self- 
defence,  leaving  him  breathless. 

"I  want  to  give  him  in  charge,"  went  on  the 
insulted  man.  ' '  Where  's  a  policeman ? ' ' 

1 '  There  is  n't  one.     What  did  the  boy  do ?  " 

"What  did  n't  he  do ! "  choked  the  man  of  wealth. 
"I  engaged  a  carriage  to  myself,  and  then,  after 
the  train  became  express,  the  little  fiend  crawled 
from  under  the  seat — giving  me  a  nasty  shock— 
and  offered  me  half  a  bun,  a  nasty,  sticky,  dirty 
bun.  .  .  !"  Mr.  Higgins 's  voice  trailed  off  with  a 
gasp.  "When  I  refused,  he  took  it  as  an  insult 
and  called  me  ...  names.  I  told  him  I  'd  have 
him  put  in  charge  when  we  got  to  Southampton 
West,  and  so  I  would,  only  when  we  got  there  he 
slipped  away.  Then  last  station  he  popped  back 
into  my  carriage,  asked  for  the  policeman,  and 
when,  exasperated,  I  attempted  gentle  correction, 
he  assaulted  me,  assaulted  me  most  grossly.  ...  As 
you  may  notice,  I  have  not  yet  recovered  my  breath. 


230  Vagabond  City 

He  is  a  little  devil — a  regular  little  devil,  and 
there  he  is  driving  away  now.  Hi — you — stop!  " 
Mr.  Higgins  waved  an  excited  umbrella,  while  the 
trap  containing  the  bad  boy  and  his  parents  made 
a  quick  exit  from  the  station,  the  boy  grinning  at 
his  victim  with  a  thumb  to  his  nose. 

Mr.  Higgins  almost  relapsed  into  tears.  "I  Ve 
never  been  so  insulted  in  my  life,  never, "  he  said 
brokenly;  "grossly  insulted,  77" 

"This  is  our  trap,  all  I  could  get,"  said  Mick 
apologetically,  helping  the  great  body  into  place. 
"As  a  matter  of  fact,  that  unfortunate  little  boy 
is  more  to  be  pitied  than  blamed.  His  parents 
were  telling  me  about  him;  he  's  not  entirely  re- 
sponsible for  his  actions  when  he  travels,  trains 
affecting  his  brain  in  the  oddest  fashion.  If  you  'd 
shut  your  eyes  and  taken  a  bite  out  of  his  bun,  it 
might  have  been  all  right,  but  he  cannot  brook 
opposition." 

"Taken  a  bite  out  of  his  bun !  I  told  him  what  I 
thought  of  him  and  his  filthy  bun — the  little  fiend! 
And  what  he  deserved,  too!  A  third-class  ticket 
and  no  excuse  except  that  he  'always  liked  to 
travel  first  in  reserved  carriages  with  fat  old 
busters' — 'fat  old  busters,'  Mick!  He  meant  me! 
He  said  he  'told  them  things'  and  they  gave  him 
a  shilling,  sometimes  more,  though  skinflints  only 
'stumped  up'  sixpence;  that  his  parents  were  too 
poor  to  allow  him  much  pocket-money,  and  he 
liked  to  save  them  expense!  That  he  often  did! 
I  told  him  it  would  n't  be  money  I  'd  give  him, 


Mr.  Higgins  at  Home  and  Abroad    231 

and  he — assaulted  me!"  Mr.  Higgins  bent  with 
a  slight  groan.  "He  said  he  always  'used  his 
head  in  a  footer  scrum';  it  was  'hard  as  bricks  and 
no  end  useful';  and  it  was,1'  concluded  the  poor 
man  feelingly. 

"You  leave  him  to  me,"  said  Mick,  feeling  for 
half-a-crown.  "I'll  give  him  something  he 
does  n't  expect,  and  a  jolly  sight  more  than  he 
deserves!" 

Mr.  Higgins  eyed  the  fine,  muscular  figure  op- 
posite, and  his  eyes  brightened. 

"Give  it  him  with  my  kind  regards,  "he  said 
grimly. 

"I  will,"  said  Mick,  and  fingered  the  half-crown. 

Mr.  Higgins  felt  more  soothed  and  satisfied,  and 
as  they  drove  along  in  apparent  good  fellowship, 
he  decided  that  Muriel  had,  after  all,  not  done  so 
badly  for  herself.  True,  the  young  man's  appear- 
ance was  rather  wild  and  unconventional,  but  he 
was  good-looking  in  his  way,  had  even  a  dis- 
tinguished appearance,  and  he  had  been  making 
money,  though  he  was  an  author.  A  man  who 
made  money,  no  matter  how  he  made  it,  must  al- 
ways claim  a  certain  respect  and  consideration,  and 
Mick  seemed  to  have  in  him  the  elements  of  success. 
Therefore,  Mr.  Higgins,  thinking  afresh  of  how  he 
had  acted  fairy  godfather  to  this  clever  young 
man,  became  every  minute  more  genial,  almost 
affectionate.  Indeed,  he  came  near  to  loving  Mick 
because  he  reminded  him  of  the  great  generosity 
he  had  shown,  the  favours  he  had  bestowed.  Mick 


232  Vagabond  City 

made  the  great  Mr.  Higgins  feel  good,  over-flowing 
with  virtue  and  loving-kindness,  and  it  was  the  most 
paying  of  all  generosity,  since  it  cost  him  nothing. 

Dear  young  people — lucky  young  people ! 

If  he  had  only  had  a  rich  and  noble  Uncle  Wil- 
liam when  he  was  a  promising  young  man!  Mr. 
Higgins,  though  he  had  been  a  struggling  young 
man  (and  a  very  plucky,  worthy  struggler  indeed), 
never  thought  of  himself  as  "struggling" :  the  term 
lacked  dignity;  but  always  as  a  "promising  young 
man."  He  had  considered  Mick  as  a  struggler, 
but  in  the  afterglow  of  generosity,  he  became  al- 
most another  promising  young  man.  Mr.  Higgins 
was  quite  sure  there  was  something  in  Michael 
Talbot,  after  all.  He  felt  towards  him  as  a  man 
feels  towards  his  equal,  not  in  the  least  like  one  in 
the  presence  of  one  vastly  inferior.  "After  all, 
there  's  nothing  like  intellect, "  Mr.  Higgins  told 
himself  complacently,  "when  one  can  afford  to 
possess  it."  As  a  very  rich  man  Mr.  Higgins  felt 
he  could  afford  himself  every  luxury. 

"This  is  No  Man's  Land, "  said  Mick,  at  length, 
pointing  out  the  village  green.  "There  's  the  inn 
where  we  will  leave  the  trap ;  the  cottage  is  just  at 
the  top  of  the  hill  yonder.  Would  you  like  to 
walk  up  it?  "  He  had  a  merciful  eye  on  the  weary 
horse,  and  alighted  himself  as  he  spoke,  an  example 
followed  by  the  driver,  whose  face  fell  as  Mr.  Hig- 
gins declared  his  intention  of  remaining  where  he 
was.  Rich  mayors  did  not  walk  up  hills  when  they 
had  paid  to  be  delivered  at  the  top. 


Mr.  Higgins  at  Home  and  Abroad    233 

"A  stiff  little  climb,"  he  beamed,  as  he  settled 
his  gross  weight  more  comfortably — for  himself. 
"There  's  nothing  like  living  high  up." 

"Nothing,"  agreed  Mick  pleasantly  busily  en- 
gaged in  flicking  the  flies  off  the  luckless  horse. 
"Except,  of  course,  residing  entirely  in  the  clouds." 

"Ha!  ha!"  chuckled  Mr.  Higgins,  ready  to  be 
pleased  with  everything.  "Very  good!  Nothing 
like  a  sense  of  humour  to  lighten  the  load!" 

' '  Pity  it 's  confined  to  the  human  world — if  it  is," 
returned  Mick,  with  another  look  at  the  sweating, 
straining  horse. 

"Lightens  the  load!  Oh,  I  see — quite  a  double 
entente.  I  must  be  careful,  or  I  will  be  shocking 
Susan.  How  is  poor  Susan  by  the  way?" 

Mr.  Higgins  always  spoke  of  "poor  Susan,"  not 
only  because  she  had  not  succeeded  in  getting 
married,  but  because  she  had  not  succeeded  in 
marrying  him.  He  could  imagine  no  greater 
tragedy.  His  method  towards  her  was  reminiscent 
of  one  visiting  the  sick  and  afflicted.  He  truly 
sympathised  with  Miss  Dalton  in  her  irreparable 
loss. 

"Ah,  here  we  are  at  the  top,  or  nearly.  Which  is 
Rose  Cottage? "  His  eyes  fell  on  the  roomy  farm 
in  the  distance. 

Mick  pointed  to  the  poor  little  dwelling  the 
rich  man's  generosity  had  bestowed  upon  him. 
"That 's  it,"  he  said  briefly,  and  waited  for  Mr. 
Higgins's  face  to  exhibit  dismay. 

But  Rose  Cottage,  his  one  act  of  generosity,  was 


234  Vagabond  City 

already  glorified  in  Mr.  Higgins's  eyes,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  a  goodly  place  enough — for  poor 
relations.  ' '  How  truly  rural,  how  very  charming ! ' ' 
he  exclaimed,  quite  sincerely.  "What  a  perfect 
view  you  must  have!" 

"On  to  the  pigsties,  where  we  see  nature  un- 
ashamed, and,  I  trust,  learn  a  lesson,"  returned 
Mick.  "It  is,  as  you  say,  glorious." 

"And  there  's  a  tent.  Who  is  camping  out  near 
you?" 

"An  artist'  friend. " 

"How  delightful!  I  must  make  the  acquaint- 
ance of  the  young  man  and  ask  him  to  show  me 
his  pictures." 

It  never  dawned  upon  him  that  the  artist  might 
not  be  flattered  by  this  unprofitable  notice,  since 
Mr.  Higgins  scarcely  knew  a  sunset  from  a  cow. 

"It 's  a  young  woman,  though, "  explained  Mick. 

' '  Not  alone  surely !  What ?  "  in  return  to  Mick's 
nod,  "but  how  more  than  odd!  I  hope  Muriel 
has  n't  got  too  friendly?" 

"Of  course,  when  one  hasn't  anything  -worth 
stealing,  one  does  grow  rash, ' '  agreed  Mick.  ' '  Still, 
I  don't  think  Muriel  has  ever  left  her  alone  with  the 
wedding-presents  or  her  silver-handled  umbrella, 
and,  so  far  none  of  us  have  woke  to  find  our  throat 
cut  from  'year  to  year'!" 

"Ha!  ha!"  chuckled  Mr.  Higgins.  "What  a 
sense  of  humour  you  have — and  what  jokes  we  '11 
have  together,  but  not  before  the  ladies,  mind,  not 
before  the  ladies!"  and  overcome  with  the  holiday 


Mr.  Higgins  at  Home  and  Abroad    235 

spirit  he  reached  forward  and  dug  his  nephew-in- 
law  in  the  ribs.  Then  he  sobered  again;  remem- 
bered his  great  position,  his  great  responsibilities. 
"  I  meant  of  course  moral  influences, "  he  explained. 
"  One  hears  these  Bohemian  women  are  a  little  .  .  . 
free  in  their  words  and  ways,  not  quite  good  style, 
genteel,  if  you  take  me — though  not  of  course  any- 
thing really  wrong.  Still,  I  shall  be  delighted  to 
make  her  acquaintance  and  view  her  pictures. " 

"You  are  quite  too  kind,  Uncle  William,"  said 
Mick,  feelingly. 

' '  My  dear  fellow,  don't  mention  it !  If  we  are  n't 
put  into  the  world  to  do  good  to  our  fellow-beings, 
especially  our  relations,  what  are  we  put  here  for?" 
And  Mr.  Higgins  played  absently  with  a  non-exist- 
ent Bible,  his  Sunday  expression  rising  to  the 
surface. 

"I  give  it  up,"  said  Mick,  shaking  his  head. 
"  There  's  Mrs.  Hobbs  coming  out  of  the  cottage 
to  view  your  approach  with  curtseys  to  suit  the 
great  occasion.  She  's  no  end  of  a  character!" 

"So  handy  for  study!"  enthused  Mr.  Higgins, 
determined  to  see  good  in  all  things.  Didn't 
the  lucky  young  couple  also,  indirectly,  owe  Mrs. 
Hobbs  to  his  generosity? 

"But  unhandy  for  domestic  offices  at  such  times 
as  she  is  either  getting  drunk  or  converted,"  la- 
mented Mick.  "However,  she  's  promised  to  do 
neither  during  your  visit.  She  has  the  greatest 
admiration  and  respect  for  you,  Uncle  William, 
she  has  really." 


236  Vagabond  City 

"Not  at  all,  my  dear  fellow,  not  at  all!"  cried 
Mr.  Higgins,  highly  delighted. 

"Some  men, "  said  Mick  solemnly,  "are  born  to 
be  worshipped  by  women;  it  is  n't  their  fault,  they 
can't  help  it;  it 's  Fate,  but  it 's  hard  on  the  less 
fortunate. " 

"  Ha !  ha ! "  cried  Mr.  Higgins,  beaming.  ' '  What 
a  fellow  you  are  for  jokes.  Not  but  what.  ..." 

Mick  nodded  sympathetically,  and  no  further 
words  were  needed.  Mr.  Higgins  knew  they  un- 
derstood each  other  perfectly;  it  was  not  a  dis- 
agreeable sensation.  "And  is  the  interior  equally 
charming?"  he  asked.  "Dear  me,  how  time  flies. 
It  must  be  half -past  four. " 

"I  think  I  '11  just  fly  on  ahead  and  tell  Muriel 
she  can  get  the  tea  ready, "  said  Mick,  making  a 
sudden  spurt  forward,  and  ignoring  the  fact  that 
Mrs.  Hobbs  would  have  already  made  that  state- 
ment. "You  must  be  quite  exhausted!" 

As  Muriel,  still  fearing  the  worst,  and  battling 
with  a  cowardly  inclination  to  flee,  not  to,  but  from, 
the  rich  uncle,  bent  over  the  hearth,  she  turned  to 
see  her  husband  standing  with  well-acted  pathos 
in  the  doorway. 

"Muriel  .  .  .  !"  he  began  tragically. 

She  did  not  give  him  time  to  continue.  Im- 
mediately she  supposed  all  her  worst  fears  only  too 
well  founded.  "Oh,  Mick,  what  have  you  done?" 
she  wailed.  ' '  Will  he  ever  forgive  you  ?  You  have 
offended  him  hopelessly,  of  course.  I  knew  you 
would,  even  though  you  promised  you  wouldn't!" 


Mr.  Higgins  at  Home  and  Abroad    237 

"  But  it 's  he  that  has  offended  me, "  returned  her 
mad  husband  pathetically.  "Muriel,  prepare 
yourself  for  the  worst !  The  rich  uncle  has  brought 
us  nothing,  not  even  a  cheese.  I  did  think  your 
relations — your  wealthy  relations — would  always 
bring  us  something!"  He  sighed  heavily. 

Muriel  stared  at  him  in  astonishment.  "And 
all  the  time  you  Ve  been  pretending  you  were  n't 
mercenary!"  she  exclaimed,  disgusted.  "Really, 
Mick,  I  do  believe  you  are  the  most  contradictory 
person  in  the  world !  How  can  you  be  so  expecting ! 
Of  course  he  would  n't  bring  us  things  as  if  we  were 
babies  and  looked  for  sweets  in  his  bag.  Isn't 
the  cottage  enough?" 

"More  than  enough,"  he  retorted.  "I  merely 
wanted  the  little  more  that  is  enough, — any  old 
turkey  he  might  have  had  lying  about,  or  a  bit  of 
lamb,  or  the  ham  of  a  pet  pig. "  He  began  to  weep 
with  awful  realism.  "Rich  uncles  are  expected  to 
have  little  trifles  in  their  portmanteaux,  but  there 
was  nothing — nothing,  just  shirts  and  waistcoats 
and  things  he  told  me  to  be  sure  not  to  mention 
before  poor  dear  Susan.  Why  is  she  '  poor  dear'  ? ' ' 

"She  had  n't  enough  to  make  it  worth  his  while," 
said  Muriel  cryptically,  "so  Aunt  Jane  got  him 
instead.  Her's  was  ten  thousand." 

"Lucky,  lucky  Jane!  And  does  she  thank 
Heaven,  kneeling,  for  a  good  man's  love— of 
lucre?"  asked  Mick.  "But  about  there  being 
nothing  in  his  portmanteau — 

"What  do   you  mean?    How  do  you  know?'' 


238  Vagabond  City 

The  much-tormented  woman  wrung  her  hands, 
and  her  voice  rose  in  panic  alarm.  "Oh,  Mick, 
you  never  looked?" 

He  met  the  horror  in  her  eyes  with  the  simula- 
tion of  a  fresh  burst  of  tears.  "I  only  poked, "  he 
sobbed;  "just  simple  little  pokes,  but  it  took  ages 
to  make  even  one  hole.  These  mighty  magnates 
buy  the  best  leather,  it  seems." 

"Poked  holes!"  echoed  the  appalled  Muriel. 
She  was  startled,  but  was  she  really  surprised? 
Could  anything  that  mad,  incomprehensible,  er- 
ratic Mick  ever  did  surprise  her?  And  he  had 
poked  holes  in  the  rich  uncle's  portmanteau! 

"Not  poked;  perhaps  that 's  too  crude  a  term. 
Let  's  say  insinuated  ...  I  insinuated  an 
aperture  ....  there,  that  sounds  positively 
genteel." 

"Did  he  see?  Did  he  suspect?  Oh,  Mick, 
how  could  you?" 

"With  the  ferule  of  my  stick,  't  anyrate!"  He 
took  out  his  handkerchief  again,  "I  'm  only  a 
pore  little  nephew,  ho  yus,  even  nephews  must  live 
and  /  did  n't  butt  him  in  the  wind. " 

"Butt  him!  Did  somebody  butt  Uncle  William 
in  the — the—  Muriel's  voice  rose  hysterically, 
and  she  wrung  her  hands  in  agony  of  spirit. 

" Oh,  hush! "  he  interrupted.  "What  word  were 
you  about  to  use,  and  in  connection  with  Uncle 
William!  And  he  wouldn't  have  been  butted  if 
he  'd  bitten  the  bun  and  handed  over  a  shilling 
for  being  told  things. " 


Mr.  Higgins  at  Home  and  Abroad    239 

Muriel  burst  into  genuine  tears  of  dismay. 
"You  Ve  gone  really  mad  at  last!"  she  trembled. 
"I  always  felt  you  would  some  day,  but  oh,  you 
might  have  waited  till  after  Uncle  William's  visit!" 

Somewhat  repentant,  Mick  sought  hurriedly 
to  apologise  and  explain. 

"Only  joking,"  echoed  Muriel,  fury  in  her  eyes; 
"only  joking — and  about  Uncle  William.  You  '11 
joke  about  God  next!" 

Just  then  Mr.  Higgins  himself  appeared. 

"Oh,  you  honeymooners!"  he  said,  shaking  an- 
arch, but  podgy,  little  finger.  "Do  you  think  I 
did  n't  know  you  'd  rushed  off  for  a  few  fond  words 
before  the  uncle  should  interrupt  the  billing  and 
cooing.  But  don't  mind  me;  I  was  young  once 
myself. " 

"And  not  so  long  ago  either,  I  'm  sure, "  brought 
out  Mick,  with  a  gasp. 

"Ha!  ha!  Well,  you  Ve  made  me  feel  like  a 
chaperon — a  regular  old  dowager." 

Relief  shone  in  Muriel's  face !  Mick  had,  so  far, 
got  on  all  right  with  Mr.  Higgins,  because  Mr. 
Higgins  did  not  in  the  least  suspect  his  real 
character. 

"A  frisky  one,  then,"  said  Mick,  with  a  wink. 
"Not  minding  the  care  of  a  few  nice  young  girls 
at  all!" 

"Oh,   hush!"    cried    Mr.    Higgins,    delighted. 
"  Really,  my  dear  fellow,  you  go  too  far.    The  days 
of    my    youth    are    dead  .   .   .  dead  .  .  ." 
face  assumed  the  look  of  a  man  with  a  secret 


240  Vagabond  City 

sorrow  gnawing  at  his  vitals — "in  a  grave  with 
other  loves." 

"One  love  and  several  graves,  or  a  grave  apiece 
for  each  love?"  demanded  Mick,  aside,  of  Muriel, 
who  cast  an  imploring  glance  at  him. 

"And  then  life  's  never  the  same  again, "  sighed 
Mr.  Higgins,  looking  eagerly  towards  the  plate  of 
hot  cakes  on  the  hob.  Yes,  they  were  his  favourite 
kind.  How  fortunate  Muriel  had  remembered! 
These  stiff  climbs  gave  one  an  appetite! 

And  then  Miss  Dalton  entered,  with  more  colour 
than  usual  in  her  face,  and  she,  too,  thought  of  the 
might-have-been,  but  wryly,  rather  than  plea- 
surably,  like  Mr.  Higgins. 

"My  dear  Susan!"  he  exclaimed  emotionally, 
also  perhaps  a  trifle  thickly,  owing  to  a  large 
mouthful  of  hot  cake.  "And  how  are  you ? " 

"As  well  as  can  be  expected,"  muttered  Mick 
quickly  aside  to  the  man  who  had  blighted  Miss 
Dalton's  second  hopes,  and  was  far  from  uncon- 
scious of  it. 

"I  am  very  well  thank  you,"  answered  Miss 
Dalton,  who  still  worshipped  the  great  man  at  such 
moments  as  a  desire  to  sting  him  for  his  perfidy 
did  not  reign  supreme.  "  And  how  is  poor  Jane?  " 

"Poor  Jane?"  asked  Mr.  Higgins,  affronted. 
How  could  the  woman  who  had  achieved  him  and 
his  great  position,  be  "poor  Jane"? 

Miss  Dalton  smoothed  down  her  dress  where  it 
most  persisted  in  rucking,  and  managed  to  imply 
much  by  her  silence. 


Mr.  Higgins  at  Home  and  Abroad    241 

"  She  has  gone  for  her  holiday, "  he  added,  with  a 
jocularity  which  sounded  a  little  thin.  "Poor 
Jane,"  indeed! 

"To  Manchester?"  enquired  Miss  Dalton  pity- 
ingly. "That 's  the  funny  thing  about  provincial 
people — they  go  back  and  back  and  never  shake  it 
off." 

She  had  planted  her  sting,  pointed  out  to  him 
that  his  wife  was  "provincial."  Being  parochial 
herself  she  could  think  of  no  greater  slur  than 
provincialism. 

Mr.  Higgins  frowned.  He  had  thought  his  wife 
stupid,  and  resented  her  obvious  boredom  at  his 
blatant  entertainments,  but  provincial!  And 
women  were  so  quick  to  find  out  the  lack  in  each 
other!  Whatever  she  might  have  been  in  a  more 
congenial  one,  Jane  was  far  from  being  a  social  suc- 
cess in  his  own  particular  set,  and  her  husband  had 
wondered  at  the  reason  of  it.  Now,  the  woman 
he  had  once  thought  of  marrying  had  told  him  the 
reason  in  one  awful  word.  On  his  return  he  would 
have  to  start  and  train  Jane,  get  this  terrible  thing 
out  of  her,  make  her  more  creditable.  ' '  Poor  Jane 
indeed !  And  the  awful  thing  was,  that,  though  he 
understood  the  slur  only  too  well,  he  did  not  in  the 
least  understand  in  what  this  dread  provincialism 
consisted.  Had  she  an  accent?  He  had  never 
noticed  it.  Certainly  she  did  not  clip  her  words  as 
his  cockneyism  taught  him  to  clip  his,  and  she 
preferred  plain  colours  to  the  vivid  silks  and  satins 
that  seemed  more  suitable  in  a  rich  man's  wife. 

16 


242  Vagabond  City 

She  had  no  "presence,"  no  sense  of  importance, 
and  she  had  rather  a  disconcerting  way  of  looking 
at  his  friends. 

"How  ridiculous!"  he  said,  rather  angrily. 
"And  though  it  may  seem  odd  to  you  who  are  so 
differently  placed,  a  lady  with  such  vast  domestic 
and  social  responsibilities  as  Jane,  needs  a  thorough 
rest  each  year,  and  it  is  at  my  express  wish  she 
takes  it. " 

Miss  Dalton  subsided,  crushed. 

Then  Mr.  Higgins  had  finished  his  plate  of  hot 
cakes,  and  a  kindlier  mood  came  over  him,  and  he 
turned  suffused  eyes  of  loving  kindness  and  senti- 
ment upon  the  whole  world.  All  these  people 
admired  him,  respected  him,  looked  up  to  him; 
even  clever,  gay  Mick  was  sensible  of  a  deep  obli- 
gation. He  felt  like  an  idol  surrounded  by  devout 
worshippers,  and  very,  very  happy.  The  more  he 
thought  about  his  generosity,  the  more  he  loved  it. 
Undoubtedly,  only  the  highest,  holiest  joy  came 
from  doing  good. 

Mrs.  Hobbs  came  out  of  the  back-kitchen  to  en- 
quire if  more  cakes  would  be  wanted,  and  genu- 
flected to  the  great  man,  and  called  him  "your 
grice"  when  Mick  grandiloquently  introduced 
her  as  "our  treasured  chef."  It  was  all  very 
pleasant  and  homely. 

"I  've  dusted  your  photer  regular,  your  grice," 
said  the  charlady  excitedly,  "an'  it 's  been  a  plea- 
sure, it  has  that!  If  you  '11  allow  me  to  siy  so,  I 
allus  'ad  an  heye  for  a  fine,  'andsome  gent,  an'  bein' 


Mr.  Higgins  at  Home  and  Abroad    243 

a  widow  owin'  to  the  act  of  God  an'  an  emetic 
what  was  rigin',  an'  which  me  'usband  took,  I  feels 
it  ain't  no  sin  to  enjoy  it!"  Here  she  genuflected 
again,  curtsey  being  quite  an  inadequate  word  to 
describe  her  reverent  obeisance,  "An'  though  the 
photer  was  a  treat,  your  grice,  you  're  a  finer  sight 
still."  With  which  she  disappeared  precipitately 
backwards  into  the  inner  kitchen  and  shut  the  door 
before  Mr.  Higgins  could  make  any  reply,  making 
a  curtsey-exit. 

"Quite  a  character,  as  you  said,"  beamed  Mr. 
Higgins  to  Mick,  "but  an  honest,  worthy  woman, 
I  feel  sure.  Now,  suppose  we  do  the  rounds.  Ha ! 
ha!  This  is  your  chief  sitting-room,  I  suppose; 
very  nice  too,  I  'm  sure;  very  nice.  I  Ve  often 
wished  I  could  fly  like  a  bird  to  a  cosy  little  nest 
somewhere  myself!" 

Mr.  Higgins  had  never  consciously  wished  any- 
thing of  the  sort.  He  loved  his  big,  ornate  villa 
because  anyone  could  see  a  lot  of  money  had  been 
spent  on  it,  and  it  was  the  "residence "  of  a  success- 
ful man.  But,  at  this  moment  he  was  really  wish- 
ful for  a  romantic  cottage  in  the  woods.  "And 
that  the  back-kitchen!"  he  continued.  "How 
delightful !  So  close,  so  compact,  so  convenient ! ' 

"Very  compact,"  agreed  Mick.  "From  the 
first  we  never  lost  our  way." 

"Ah,  you  must  have  your  joke, "—indulgently. 
"Well,  well,  youth  and  love  go  with  high  spirits." 
He  sighed  enviously.  "And  actually  a  bath  put 
in !  Now  I  call  that  a  very  neat  idea,  very  neat ! ' 


244  Vagabond  City 

"So  much  neater  than  a  bathroom,"  murmured 
Mick.  "And  so  much  more  interesting  for  the 
passers-by." 

"  The  blind  's  all  right  now, "  interrupted  Muriel, 
growing  red  at  thoughts  of  the  postman.  "Will 
you  come  upstairs?" 

Mr.  Higgins  went  upstairs,  and  was  more  de- 
lighted than  ever.  It  seemed  just  right  to  him. 
"No  empty  wasted  rooms,  such  as  I  have  to  put 
up  with, "  he  concluded. 

Then  he  took  a  short — very  short — stroll  on  the 
moors,  and  again  was  envious  of  the  lucky  young 
couple.  He  had  n't  a  view  like  that  at  home. 
Esmerelda  grunted  by  his  side,  and  he  was  affected 
almost  to  tears  to  think  that  he  who  had  given 
these  young  people  their  all,  had  n't  even  a  pet  pig 
of  his  own :  only  sad  memories,  and  a  secret  sorrow. 

Thus,  Miss  Elphenstonne,  returning  from  a 
sketching  tour,  met  them  and  stared,  as  one  seeing 
rather  a  dreadful  ghost,  at  sight  of  the  great  Uncle 
William. 

The  necessary  introductions  were  scarcely  heeded. 
"My  dear  young  lady,"  purred  Mr.  Higgins,  who 
seldom  forgot  a  face  of  any  importance.  "Why, 
we  are  not  strangers  at  all,  but  quite  old  friends! 
Dare  I  hope  you  remember  me  as  I  remember  you?  " 
And  the  artist's  small  hand  was  swallowed  in  Mr. 
Higgins's  doughy  palm.  "Have  you  forgotten 
the  opening  of  the  great  exhibition  four  years  ago? 
You  were  with  the  Comtesse  de  Malmedy,  and  the 
Royal  Duke  was  there,— a  delightful  man.  I  had 


Mr.  Higgins  at  Home  and  Abroad    245 

the  honour  of  a  few  words  with  His  Highness.  I 
shook  hands  with  you,  too?  Dear,  dear,  this  is 
very  delightful!" 

He  forgot  that  artists  could  be  rather  shocking 
and  Bohemian  people,  or  rather  remembered  only 
that  this  delightfully  original  young  lady  was  an 
intimate  friend  of  the  Comtesse  and  a  niece  of 
Lord  Elphenstonne. 

"I  've  been  hearing  all  about  your  naughty,  un- 
conventional ways,"  he  said  archly.  "But  I  'm 
not  going  to  be  hard  on  you — we  must  all  have  our 
little  holidays  at  times,  and  you  are  such  a  travelled 
young  lady!" 

Miss  Elphenstonne,  her  eyes  twinkling,  mur- 
mured something  suitable,  and  fell  back  with  Mick. 
"Oh,  Mick,  will  they  ever  forgive  me?  The  funny, 
fat  mayor-person  with  dough  for  hands!  They 
will  recognise  the  description  now,  and  I  am  lost. 
Let's  run!" 

"See  great  Uncle  William  as  fat  or  funny!  My 
dear,  silly  Elfkin,  not  they!  They  see  him  as  the 
Golden  Calf,  as  a  god,  as  something  too  great  for 
Nature's  daily  food,  and  bow  awed  heads.  You 
are  safe,  sprite.  Is  n't  he  too  delicious?  Let 's 
make  a  book  of  Uncle  William!  I  want  to  tell 
you  what  happened  to  him  in  the  train  and  all 
about  our  conversation  since."  And  not  without 
additions  of  his  own,  he  retailed  the  day's  adven- 
ture. They  always  laughed  together,  Miss  Elphen- 
stonne and  he:  so  the  bond  was  closer  than  she. 
knew. 


246  Vagabond  City 

It  was  later  than  Mr.  Higgins  had  intended  it  to 
be,  when  they  got  back  to  the  cottage,  and  the 
sun's  red  glow,  turning  all  that  was  unlovely  into 
beauty,  touched  the  scene  with  magic. 

Mrs.  Hobbs  came  out  of  the  cottage,  too,  to  gaze 
on  the  beauty  of  Mr.  Higgins,  and  suddenly,  they 
all  fell  silent  before  the  curious  hush  of  the  moors. 
Not  even  the  tinkle  of  a  cow  with  a  bell  disturbed 
it,  and  the  restless,  galloping  forest  ponies  lay  down 
for  a  space.  It  was  a  moment  of  great  peace,  a 
moment  for  dreams. 

And  a  little  noiseless  cloud  of  dreams  hung  above 
them  and  dispersed  each  to  its  dreamer.  Mr. 
Higgins's  rather  prominent  eyes  lost  their  muffin- 
sentimentality,  took  on  a  glow, — a  glow  of  pas- 
sionate ambition:  he  thought  of  his  possible  peerage 
and  more  money,  a  great  deal  more  money!  His 
pulse  quickened,  he  straightened  his  flaccid  muscles; 
he  was  great,  but  he  was  going  to  be  greater;  he 
could  feel  it  coming,  had  always  known  it.  Even 
Jane's  provincialism  had  not  power  to  mar  the 
perfection  of  that  moment.  He  was  young  again ; 
he  was  a  god;  the  eternal  conqueror. 

Standing  a  little  apart,  Miss  Elphenstonne  saw 
herself  endowed  with  health  and  strength  and 
length  of  days,  going  on  to  victory,  fighting  but 
winning,  the  flame  of  her  genius  burning  brighter, 
higher,  as  time  passed,  till  at  last  it  shone  like  a 
great,  white  light  upon  the  whole  world,  and  time 
could  not  dim  it,  nor  custom  stale  .  .  .  and  saw  her 
star  ascendant,  and  knew  it  for  the  star  of  Destiny. 


Mr.  Higgins  at  Home  and  Abroad    247 

Mick,  with  his  wild,  dark  eyes  upon  her  face, 
dreamed  only  of  her  and  of  freedom;  of  wander 
years  with  the  ideal  mate;  and  had  no  thought  of 
work  or  career;  for  work  and  career  were  incidents 
to  Michael  Talbot.  But  one  curse  lurked  within 
him,  a  tiger  insecurely  caged,  the  unbreakable 
curse  of  wanderlust:  the  second  curse  of  genius  had 
not  been  added. 

Muriel  dreamt  of  a  palatial  residence,  with  men- 
servants  and  maid-servants  and  a  smart  crowd 
always  coming  and  going;  exquisite  nurseries;  ex- 
quisite dream  children.  Miss  Dalton,  of  romantic 
possibilities  even  yet,  for  it  was  the  hour  of 
romance.  She  made  herself  queen  of  the  brown 
doctor  and  his  home ;  and  buried,  without  remorse, 
the  peevish  invalid  sister.  The  brown  doctor,  even 
then,  riding  home  to  the  nagging  woman  who 
awaited  him  with  fresh  complaints,  felt  in  the 
golden  rose  that  after  all,  he  was  not  too  old  to 
capture  a  little  of  the  rose  still.  He  had  a  swift 
and  dying  vision  of  a  practice  becoming  a  liberal 
livelihood ;  of  being  able  to  allow  his  sister  enough 
to  live  on  in  a  fashionable  hydro  at  Eastbourne, 
such  as  she  had  always  longed  for;  and  of  some 
vague  figure  dancing  through  his  dreary  rooms 
turning  them  to  sunshine.  But,  apart  from  the 
fact  that  Miss  Dalton  did  not  dance,  the  figure 
bore  no  resemblance  to  hers.  It  was  just  an  ideal, 
born  of  a  rose-coloured  cloud  and  the  hush  of  the 
moors. 

Mrs.  Hobbs's  Utopia  was  a  place  of  unlimited 


248  Vagabond  City 

whisky  for  a  week  or  so,  and  a  new  bonnet  to  get 
converted  in,  which  would  earn  her  the  undying 
hatred  of  every  female  friend  she  had.  There 
would  also  be  a  new,  young,  and  handsome 
minister  to  convert  her,  and  add  to  her  other 
emotions  a  certain  piquancy. 

Wise  Mrs.  Hobbs  to  seek  only  the  tangible,  while 
others  sought  castles  in  Spain,  building  extrava- 
gantly! She  alone  was  to  grasp  her  dream  in  all 
its  potent  sweetness.  Even  Esmerelda  was  not  to 
find  her  ambition — a  place  of  filth  and  slime  to 
wallow  in;  a  trough  that  would  never  be  empty; 
and  complacent  Muriel  to  let  her  wallow!  For 
Muriel  sternly  forbade  wallowing,  and  Esmerelda 
was  fated  to  suffer  all  the  pangs  of  Tantalus. 

Then  came  the  trap,  and  the  refreshed  horse  and 
driver,  and  the  great  Mr.  Higgins  was  packed  in- 
side in  state. 

"Don't  give  the  man  more  than  so  and  so," 
whispered  Mick,  naming  a  sum  somewhat  over  the 
legal  fare,  and,  rather  blankly,  Mr.  Higgins  said 
he  would  n't  think  of  doing  so.  He  had  intended 
to  give  half. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

TWO  PERSONS  RETURN  TO  YOUTH 

COR  the  best  part  of  the  week,  Mr.  Higgins  shed 
the  light  of  his  countenance  upon  his  admir- 
ing and  devoted  relatives,  and  worshipped  some- 
what ridiculously  at  Miss  Elphenstonne's  shrine; 
he  classed  women  as  inferior,  mentally,  physically, 
and,  on  the  whole,  morally,  to  his  own  sex;  he 
allowed  them  souls,  certainly,  but  smaller  souls; 
as  an  adjunct  to  a  man  they  had  a  certain  use  in 
the  world,  and  some  of  them  were  even  intelligent; 
but  of  single  women  over  twenty-eight  he  most 
strongly  disapproved;  he  spoke  of  them  as  an 
' '  unfortunate  institution. " 

His  flirtation  with  Miss  Elphenstonne — for  the 
girl  most  shamelessly  encouraged  him —  opened  his 
eyes  to  a  rather  surprising  fact;  that  to  every  rule 
there  is  an  exception.  He  graciously  allowed  to 
Mick  that  Miss  Elphenstonne  was  this  exception. 
She  was  the  only  single  woman  of  thirty  he  had 
neither  despised  nor  pitied.  Had  he  been  free,  he 
would  have  bestowed  his  greatness  upon  the  artist 
with  no  undue  amount  of  condescension.  The 
comedy  was  one  hugely  enjoyed  by  the  artist,  and, 

249 


250  Vagabond  City 

as  greatly  if  differently  (for  he  did  not  know  it  was 
a  comedy),  by  the  victim  himself.  Muriel  and 
her  aunt  were  startled,  and  not  quite  pleased. 
Mrs.  Hobbs  found  it  no  more  than  she  expected, 
"men  bein'  men, — specially  on  an  'oliday, "  and 
Mick  was  furious.  For  once  he  did  not  see  the 
humour  of  Miss  Elphenstonne's  joke. 

"Really  Elf  .  .  !"  he  began  one  day,  after 
witnessing  the  most  flagrant  of  flirtatious  passages. 
"How  you  can  .  .  .  !  A  fat  old  fool  like  that ! " 

"I  think  you  ought  to  practice  calling  me  'Aunt 
William, '  '  returned  Miss  Elphenstonne  primly, 
"and  being  respectful.  Dear  Jane's  life  is  not 
likely  to  be  a  good  one — his  wife's  would  n't. 
Think  of  me  in  welwets  and  a  gold  chain,  as  a 
mayoress!"  She  closed  ecstatic  eyes,  "or  is  it 
he  who  has  the  welwets  and  the  gold  chain! 
Men  are  so  selfish!" 

"You  said  you  never  allowed  married  men  to 
make  love  to  you!" 

"But  I  naturally  excepted  great  mayors,  Golden 
Calves,  and  Uncle  Williams,"  retorted  Miss  El- 
phenstonne. "  One  does. " 

"He  was  only  going  to  stay  a  couple  of  days,  and 
he  's  been  a  week.  He  's  really  falling  in  love 
with  you " 

"Can't  you  see  the  Mr.  Higginses  of  this  world 
never  fall  in  love  with  anything  but  themselves, 
and  their  own  greatness,  silly  Mick?  I  make  him 
feel  sentimental,  and  secret-sorrowish,  and  naughty. 
He  also  thinks  he  's  studying  me  as  a  new  type. 


Two  Persons  Return  to  Youth    251 

He  told  me  the  other  day  I  had  rather  revolution- 
ised his  ideas  about  women,  and  when  I  earnestly 
implored  him  not  to  become  too  anarchical,  he  plat- 
formed  platitudes  for  ten  minutes  on  the  alien  evil. 
Don't  wrest  my  amusing  toy  from  me,  please. " 

Mick  said  nothing,  but  next  day  by  subtle  sug- 
gestions and  insinuations,  he  tore  a  very  reluctant 
Mr.  Higgins  from  the  attractions  of  the  artist, 
and  saw  him  en  route  for  another  end  of  the  forest. 
Mr.  Higgins  believed  himself  to  be  going  on  his 
own  initiative,  as  the  wiser,  nobler,  course;  there 
was  his  own  reputation  to  be  considered,  and  it 
was  kinder  to  Miss  Elphenstonne  to  leave  her,  be- 
fore he  had  spoiled  her  life  with  the  vision  of  the 
might-have-been. 

Also  Miss  Dalton  had  hinted  of  a  long-owed 
letter  to  Jane,  and  Mr.  Higgins  did  not  want  Jane 
to  know  too  much;  he  did  not  realise  in  the  least 
that  the  woman  he  had  married  was  also  another 
exception,  since  she  was  uncommonly  intelligent, 
and  could  have  got  real  amusement  out  of  the  pic- 
ture of  her  husband  at  the  feet  of  a  Bohemian 
artist. 

So  he  departed  sorrowfully,  promising  to  return 
for  a  day  before  he  left  the  forest,  and  purchasing 
one  of  Miss  Elphenstonne's  small  sketches  for 
its  full  price,  which  was  not  at  all  his  usual  way 
of  doing  business. 

And  Miss  Elphenstonne  spent  the  money  on  a 
very  beautiful  walking  stick,  with  a  carved  gold 
handle  which  she  had  seen  in  Southampton,  and  had 


252  Vagabond  City 

Mick's  name  and  "go  forward"  engraved  on  it, 
ere  bestowing  it  upon  the  writer  as  a  "birthday 
present." 

"But  it  isn't  my  birthday,"  said  Mick,  after 
confused  thanks. 

"But  it  has  to  be  sometime  in  the  year — unless 
you  were  born  on  February  29th — and  I  never 
remember  dates.  And  you  will  go  forward,  won't 
you,  Mick?" 

"Of  course  I  will,"  he  answered,  for  at  that 
moment  he  felt  capable  of  the  greatest  achieve- 
ments. 

There  followed  for  a  little  space,  happy,  peaceful 
days  of  deep  content,  and  for  a  time  the  fierce 
tiger  within  Mick,  flinging  itself  against  the  iron 
bars  of  its  cage,  lay  down  in  seeming  slumber. 
And  then,  the  truce  ended,  the  imprisoned  beast 
stretched  itself,  and  its  great  yellow  eyes  blazed 
with  that  longing  for  freedom  which  is  unquench- 
able, unappeasable,  an  agony.  The  jungle  called, 
the  taste  of  its  own  kill  was  on  its  lips,  and  it 
pressed  wildly  against  those  iron  bars. 

The  room  where  Mick  lay  was  bathed  in  moon- 
light, and  he  tossed  sleeplessly,  trying  to  stifle  two 
voices  that  shrilled  incessantly,  one  the  voice  of  a 
human  love,  the  other  that  of  a  wilder,  older,  more 
undying  passion — the  sharp,  clear  call  of  Vaga- 
bondia. 

Like  the  poignant  note  of  a  violin,  played  by  a 
master  hand,  it  held  him  under  its  spell.  It  was 
surely  the  most  drawing  sound  in  all  the  world.  It 


Two  Persons  Return  to  Youth    253 

calls  to  all,  but  few  hear  or  heed,  for  there  are  a 
hundred  things  to  drown  the  sound  of  it — success, 
ambition,  love,  responsibilities,  struggle  for  a  live- 
lihood, household  cares,  the  desire  of  a  home. 
These  are  a  vast  octopus  which  says,  "I  will  not 
let  these  people  go."  To  most  the  call  is  but  a 
broken  melody,  an  intermittent  fever,  something 
that  will  pass,  as  the  fret  of  youth  passes,  leaving 
the  safer,  more  assured  things.  The  note  is  stifled ; 
coming  ever  more  rarely,  sounding  but  as  an  echo, 
till  at  last  men  even  wonder  what  it  means.  But 
its  votaries — or  its  victims — do  not  wonder:  they 
know.  It  is  Kismet.  For  it  is  in  the  nature  of 
things  that  these  worshippers  are  fatalists,  since 
they  come  into  being  under  the  wandering  stars 
of  great  fatality.  Seldom  they  rule  their  own  lives, 
they  are  the  sport  of  Destiny,  and  Destiny  is  not 
kind  to  her  children  She  loves  them  with  a  ter- 
rible, jealous  love,  and  her  determination,  too,  is 
ruthless  and  irrevocable:  "I  will  not  let  these 
people  go." 

The  impress  of  her  fingers  made  an  ugly,  unheal- 
ing  wound  in  Mick's  heart,  held  him  to  his  bond- 
age; she  would  be  kind,  show  him  fair  sights,  teach 
him  to  see,  to  hear,  to  understand,  if  he  obeyed  her, 
but,  if  he  looked  back,  she  would  beat  him  to  his 
knees,  and  he  would  have  to  bow  a  bloody  head. 
She  would  be  more  terrible  than  any  human  woman 
scorned,  and,  to  the  last  farthing,  exact  her  price! 
Vagabondia  held  him  body,  and  soul,  and  spirit, 
and  would  hold  him  to  the  end.  He  had  no  lot 


254  Vagabond  City 

apart  from  her;  he  was  foam  of  a  turbulent  sea 
breaking  ever  on  alien  shores,  one  of  the  wasted 
lives,  the  wastrel  ones:  yet  not  all  wasted,  since  from 
him,  and  such  as  him,  are  sprung  makers  of  Empire, 
and  the  long,  lonely  army  of  pioneers  stepping 
gaily,  gladly,  willing  sacrifices,  into  the  insatiable 
maw  of  progress : 

'T  is  theirs  to  sweep  through  the  ringing  deep,  where 

Azrael's  outposts  are, 
Or  buffet  a  path  through  the  Pit's  red  wrath  when  God 

goes  out  to  war, 
Or  hang  with  the  reckless  Seraphim  on  the  rein  of  a 

red-maned  star. 

They  take  their  mirth  in  the  joy  of  the  Earth — they 

dare  not  grieve  for  her  pain — 
They  know  of  toil  and  the  end  of  toil,  they  know  God's 

law  is  plain, 
So  they  whistle  the  Devil  to  make  them  sport  who 

know  that  sin  is  vain. x 

The  voice  he  loved,  yet  feared,  sounded  very 
clearly  in  the  moonlit  room.  It  was  more  than 
ever  difficult  to  shut  his  ears  to  the  pipe  of  Pan, 
playing  in  the  night  watches. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  room  Muriel  turned  softly 
in  her  sleep. 

Had  ambition  stifled  that  voice  for  the  Elf?  Did 
she  lie  happily  at  rest  or  was  Pan  piping  to  her  also? 

Rest  and  the  Elf!  Incongruous  terms!  It  is 
little  rest  such  active  brains  ever  know.  The  fret, 

1  Kipling. 


Two  Persons  Return  to  Youth    255 

the  hurry,  maybe  the  achievement,  but  never  the 
peace  of  the  world!  Yet  their  desire  never  turns 
towards  it,  and  they  call  it  by  the  incongruous 
name  of  stagnation.  They  fly  to  grasp  the  shadow 
and  lose  the  substance. 

As  he  lay  there,  envying  the  free,  Mick  knew  that 
it  was  inevitable  he  would  some  day  go  back.  A 
wanderer  he  had  lived,  a  wanderer  he  would  die. 
The  birds  of  the  air  were  welcome  to  pick  his  bones. 
Muriel  was  an  incident,  no  more;  right  and  duty, 
but  empty  words.  He  would  go  back — and  not 
alone.  The  Elf  should  give  up  her  ambition,  all 
that  woman  held  dear,  for  love  of  him.  He  had 
the  right  to  demand  it,  since  his  love  was  greater 
still.  He  saw  her  and  himself  setting  forth,  hand 
in  hand,  with  their  two  light  hearts,  and  seeing 
eyes,  their  faces  towards  the  sun.  There  came 
vistas  of  swift  dawns  and  roseate  cities,  of  the  magic 
breaking  of  the  day  over  vast  seas,  of  a  little,  dark- 
sailing  ship  scudding  fiercely  before  the  wind — "a 
wet  road,  heaving,  shining,  and  wild  with  sea-gulls' 
cries.  ..."  Yes,  that  was  the  road  for  her  and 
for  him. 

The  strong,  hot  air  filling  the  room  seemed  to 
blow  her  towards  him  held  in  the  arms  of  the  south 
wind,  then  it  passed,  and  she  had  gone,  a  shadow 
among  shadows.  The  god  of  the  South  drifted 
lazily  out,  and  the  cool  night  wind  came  and 
dropped  her  by  his  side,  and  this  time,  for  a  space, 
the  vision  stayed.  He  lifted  a  cobweb  of  silver 
dewdrops  from  her  hair  where  it  was  silver  too,  and 


256  Vagabond  City 

lo!  it  was  warm  and  human,  not  elfin  hair  at  all! 
Not  as  a  will-o'-the-wisp,  not  as  an  elf  from  the 
merry,  dancing,  soulless  land  of  elves,  not  as  a 
genius,  but  as  the  woman  Eve  came  to  the  man 
Adam  in  the  first,  fair  garden  of  the  world,  without 
sin,  without  passion:  with  all  the  undimmed  gifts 
of  life.  So  that  there  was  neither  time  nor  space ; 
just  her  and  him;  primaeval  man,  primaeval 
woman!  And  lying  there,  he  swore  to  make  that 
vision  a  reality. 

He  would  not  be  too  greedy ;  she  had  wandered 
for  the  sake  of  her  art,  as  much  as  for  love  of  it,  and 
she  should  take  her  art  with  her  still.  He  would 
not  demand  from  her  that  which  she  loved  with 
such  absorbing  love,  even  though  it  must  always  be 
his  rival.  She  should  lose  nothing,  it  should  be  all 
gain,  since  what  the  world  called  honour  was  to 
them  but  the  smaller,  emptier  thing.  They  would 
forget  the  world  as  easily  as  the  world  forgot  them, 
as  they  wandered  by  Syrian  seas,  on  the  verge  of 
the  Rockies,  in  the  midst  of  a  desert — a  desert 
which  for  them  should  blossom  like  a  rose. 

He  saw  himself  after  the  day's  journey,  sitting 
by  their  camp-fire,  saw  the  flames  dancing  in  the 
Elf's  strange  eyes,  and  turning  her  hair  dull  red, 
felt  her  small  brown  fingers  against  his  cheek.  His 
head  rested  on  her  knees,  his  lips  on  her  hand. 
What  matter  that  outside  the  jackals  called? 

And  then  the  tiger  rose  with  a  low,  deep  growl, 
and  flung  himself  against  the  bars.  ' '  They  yield — 
at  last!"  he  cried  in  exultation,  and  then  suddenly 


Two  Persons  Return  to  Youth    257 

sank  back  and  hid  his  face  from  young  Gore's  eyes. 
"  I  am  a  cursed  and  haunted  man ! "  he  thought,  in 
utter  sickness  of  spirit.  He  had  never  been  worthy 
of  that  noble  sacrifice:  the  other  man  would  have 
been  of  infinitely  greater  use,  greater  good,  in  the 
world  than  the  man  he  had  died  for,  but  as  Mick 
had  laid  the  hewn  body  with  its  face  to  the  East, 
he  had  sworn  to  be  worthy. 

There  had  been  nothing  of  sin  to  regret  so  far, 
though  much  of  wrong  in  heart  and  brain,  but  he 
knew,  in  that  moment,  that  if  he  gained  his  heart's 
desire,  and  it  was  true — as  he  had  been  taught  in 
infancy — that  men  rose  from  the  dead,  he  might 
face,  indifferently  enough,  the  God  who  made  him, 
but  he  would  turn  away  ashamed  from  young 
Gore's  eyes.  At  that  thought  he  reached  the  lowest 
depths  of  all ;  he  envied  the  complacent  unthinking, 
his  own  eldest  brother,  his  smug  father-in-law,  his 
wife's  Uncle  William.  They  were  all  so  nearly 
bovine  in  their  self-satisfaction  and  content.  To  be 
just  a  cabbage— surely  that  was  the  most  blessed 
lot  of  all!  If  he  had  been  Mr.  Higgins,  and  Miss 
Elphenstonne  had  been  Miss  Dalton,  what  a  lot 
of  sheer,  blank  misery  they  might  have  been 
spared ! 

Yet  he  knew  that,  even  if  given  the  chance,  h 
would  still  choose  the  depths,  because  there  came 
now  and  again  a  vision  of  far,  fair  heights. 

He  thought  of  a  road,  not  far  away,  bordered  on 
each  side  by  dark  grim  firs:  how  deep  would  be  i 
allure   on  such  a  night!    How  silver  the  yoi 
17 


258  Vagabond  City 

trees  in  the  moonlight,  how  fairy-like  the  mossy 
turf!  To  think  was  to  desire:  he  rose  and  dressed 
quickly,  gripped  by  the  gipsy  longing  to  wander  in 
the  moonlight,  and  be  alone  with  a  perfect  night. 

A  sudden  sense  of  freedom  and  present  content 
came  upon  him  when  he  was  out  of  the  cottage, 
and  his  mood  changed.  He  became  careless,  ir- 
responsible— a  vagrant  child.  Like  a  boy  just 
out  of  cramping  school,  he  became  full  of  ridiculous 
antics,  waved  his  arms,  shouted,  and  ran  as  he 
shouted. 

Quickly  a  voice  answered  his,  and  a  small  figure 
darted  into  the  light. 

"Hullo  Elf, "  he  cried  gladly,  not  in  the  least  sur- 
prised. Now  that  he  came  to  think  of  it,  he  had 
known  all  the  time  she  would  be  there.  "Where 
are  the  other  elves?"  he  asked  joyfully. 

"Oh,  they  've  got  to  pinch  all  unpleasant  people's 
noses  and  turn  the  milk  sour — it 's  my '  night  out/  " 
she  returned,  executing  a  pas  seul.  "I  haven't 
been  to  bed  and  I  heard  you  shouting." 

"How  will  the  Williams  and  Susans  account  for 
their  red  noses  in  the  morning,  do  you  suppose?" 
enquired  Mick.  "But,  I  say,  you  '11  be  catching 
cold.  The  ground  is  damp  and  you  Ve  only  got 
thin  house  shoes  on.  Let  me  go  and  fetch  your 
boots?" 

"Elves  don't  take  cold,  or  have  red  noses. " 

"You  chest  is  delicate,"  he  spoke  angrily.  "I 
shall  go  for  them."  He  was  turning  when  she 
caught  his  sleeve. 


Two  Persons  Return  to  Youth    259 

"There  you  go— spoiling  all  the  make-believe!" 
she  exclaimed,  in  wrath.  "And  how  can  I  dance  a 
fairy-dance  in  great  golf -boots  ?  If  you  bring  them 
I  shall  throw  them  straight  into  the  pond — so 
there,  Mister  Mad  Mick!  How  old  are  you  to- 
night? I  Ve  come  wwgrown-up  and  am  having  my 
twelfth  birthday.  Dismiss  the  superfluous  years 
and  be  thirteen,  please!" 

"Consider  it  done,  O  fellow  lunatic!" 

She  caught  his  hand  with  a  ringing,  childish 
laugh,  and  he  grasped  it  as  the  boy  of  thirteen 
might  have  done,  and  forgot  she  was  a  woman,  he 
a  man,  and  that  he  loved  her  with  all  his  being. 

"Come  and  roll  down  the  bank,"  she  com- 
manded, dancing  along  by  his  side. 

With  wild  shrieks  of  laughter  and  affected  fright, 
they  rolled  down  the  long,  steep,  mossy  slope, 
not  once  but  many  times,  racing  to  the  bottom. 

Miss  Elphenstonne  was  allowed  a  certain  start 
owing  to  her  inferior  weight,  then  came  big  Mick 
shooting  down  with  great  velocity,  and  a  mad 
tangle  of  arms  and  legs  arriving  at  the  goal.  In- 
sisting on  a  very  long  start,  the  artist  usually  won, 
but  once  when  Mick  had  passed  her  and  lay  direct 
in  her  way,  she  deliberately  propelled  herself  right 
over  him  and  triumphantly  reached  the  bottom 

first. 

They  continued  to  roll  with  great  gusto,  as  i 
really  twelve  and  thirteen,  and  a  squirrel  and  his 
wife  peeping  out  of  their  villa  window  watched 
their  antics  with  shocked,  bright  eyes. 


260  Vagabond  City 

"In  the  middle  of  the  night!"  said  the  Mister. 

"Just  under  us  so  that  we  can't  sleep!"  shrilled 
the  Missus. 

"Pair  of  ijiots!"  cried  both. 

But  the  idiots  did  not  care,  even  though  their 
clothes  were  damp  and  torn  and  green,  their  faces 
scratched  and  far  from  clean,  and  the  lady  idiot's 
hair  came  down  and  fell  over  her  back  in  heavy 
ropes  and  clung  round  her  vivid,  sparkling  face. 

"Of  course,  if  an  excuse  is  necessary,  one  does 
have  one's  hair  down  at  twelve!"  she  announced 
defiantly. 

"But  not  often  so  far  down,  I  think,"  he  re- 
turned admiring  its  splendour.  "I  say,  Elf,  what 
a  Lady  Godiva  you  'd  make !  It 's  as  long  as  your- 
self, very  nearly,  and  much  thicker — by  Jove 
there  's  a  squirrel,  let 's  chase  him!" 

The  squirrel  who  had  alighted  from  the  tree 
entirely  out  of  curiosity  found,  to  his  great  in- 
dignation, that  the  "pair  of  ijiots"  were  pursuing 
him.  At  first  he  was  annoyed,  then  the  spirit  of 
the  night  got  into  his  head  too,  and  he  encouraged 
them  in  their  folly.  He  would  let  them  just 
nearly  catch  him — it  was  so  easy  to  make  fools  of 
humans ! 

So  wild,  untamed  humanity  dashed  after  the 
tiny  untamed  beast,  and  it  is  impossible  to  say  who 
enjoyed  it  the  most.  Perhaps  the  squirrel's  eyes 
were  the  brightest,  but  Miss  Elphenstonne's  held 
most  of  laughter.  "I  nearly  got  the  darling's  tail 
that  time,"  she  panted. 


Two  Persons  Return  to  Youth    261 

"Funny  little  chap!  He  could  go  right  up  a 
tree  any  moment  but  prefers  to  egg  us  on.  What 
will  you  do  with  him  when  you  catch  him?" 

"Kiss  him  good-bye  of  course!  I  wonder  what 
excuse  he  will  make  to  Mrs.  Squirrel.  I  'm  sure  I 
saw  her  poking  out  an  outraged  head 

"Done  up  in  Hind's?"  he  enquired,  mindful  of 
Muriel,  "and  was  that  why  she  did  n't  come  too?" 

"No,  my  dear,  she  belongs  to  the  world  of  com- 
mon-sense, that  was  why.  He  '11  have  to  trump 
up  some  excuse,  I  fancy. " 

"He  can  always  say  it 's  only  just  gone  twelve, 
and  that  it  was  business  at  the  office;  but  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  he  was  a  journalist  or  a 
policeman,  and  as  such  beyond  excuses!" 

And  so  the  game  went  on,  very  foolish,  very 
harmless,  very  delightful  to  the  players,  who  were 
oblivious  of  the  superfluous  years,  till  the  moon- 
light died  and  the  magic  of  the  night  died  with  it. 
Mr.  Squirrel  went  home,  and  took  his  lecture  with 
his  head  tucked  in,  affecting  sleep,  but  his  tail 
moved  consciously  now  and  then,  when  a  home- 
truth  hit  the  mark. 

"  Pa  's  been  going  it  again, "  whispered  one  baby 
squirrel  to  another,  "and  ain't  he  catchin'  it  just! 
You  listen!  There  she  's  begun  at  the  beginning 
again!" 

"But  pa's  asleep,"   said  the  little  he-squin 

foolishly. 

"Much  you  know  about  it!"  said  his  baby  s  ter, 
in  derision.  "Wait  till  you  're  married,  my  son. 


262  Vagabond  City 

Miss  Elphenstonne  was  white  and  weary,  and 
the  exultation  had  gone  from  her  eyes,  which  were 
dark  and  heavy,  when  after  a  long  retracing  of 
steps,  they  reached  her  tent. 

"It 's  always  the  coming  back  which  spoils 
everything,"  she  said,  a  little  crossly.  "I  'm  not 
twelve  any  more,  but  practically  thirty." 

"You  're  tired,  and  I  ought  to  be  kicked!  Yes, 
it 's  the  coming  back,  the  consequences,  so  to 
speak,  that  sour  the  after  taste!  But  sometimes 
it 's  not  necessary  to  come  back,  Elf. " 

She  made  an  impatient  gesture  of  dissent. 
Twelve  can  roll  and  ramble  half  a  night,  and  per- 
haps feel  no  more  than  tired,  but  thirty  is  apt  to  be 
bruised,  and  sore,  and  even  a  little  sick  with  fatigue. 

"Promise  me  to  stay  in  bed  till  noon?"  he  urged 
her. 

Since  she  was  aching  in  every  limb,  chilled  to  the 
bone,  and  could  hardly  stand  for  exhaustion,  she 
naturally  repudiated  such  a  sensible  suggestion. 
"Don't  be  so  old-maidish, "  she  said  pettishly,  toss- 
ing her  wet  hair  out  of  her  eyes,  "It  was  entirely 
my  own  fault — and  at  least  I  loved  it — while  it  lasted ! 
Oh,  Mick,  imagine  the  faces  of  the  relatives  if  they 
knew!" 

Mick  laughed  long  and  loudly.  "Which  are  the 
truly  wise,  they  or  we?  They  at  least  are  good, 
according  to  their  lights — even  if  it 's  night-lights 
rather  than  the  best  electric,  and  at  the  best  I  'm 
an  outcast,  and  —  what  are  you,  Elfkin,  but 
another?" 


Two  Persons  Return  to  Youth    263 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  thought  of  the 
disapproval  of  her  own  relatives  who  had  scarcely 
acknowledged  her. 

"Not  but  what  I  don't  respect  high  moral  tone, 
I  'm  sure,"  grinned  Mick.  "Specially  at  a  dis- 
tance. " 

"There's  nothing  more  annoying  than  being 
obliged  to  respect  people  you  don't  like, "  returned 
the  girl, — almost  viciously.  "You  dislike  them  be- 
cause you  dislike  them — but  you  hate  them  because 
you  respect  them!  That  is  if  you  're  a  little  beast 
like  me. " 

"I  wish  I  were  no  worse."  His  face  grew 
gloomy. 

"Don't  be  morbid!"  She  spoke  sharply.  "Your 
view  is  too  retrospective.  How  can  you  go  for- 
ward when  you  are  always  looking  behind?  The 
past  lies  beyond  control;  the  future  at  least  is 
your  own." 

"And  Fate's, "  he  broke  in. 

She  frowned.  "  I  do  not  believe  in  fate.  '/  am 
the  master  of  my  fate;  I  am  the  captain  of  my  soull' 
Those  lines  could  inspire  a  log!" 

"'Unstable  as  water  thou  shalt  not  excel,'  was 
not  written  for  nothing. " 

"  It  was  not  written  for  you,  Mick. " 

"Oh,  yes  it  was,  and  at  times  I  see  it  only  too 
clearly;  it  is  the  writing  on  the  wall.  I  do  not 
feel  success;  I  don't  even  deserve  it,  for  there  are 
two  things  I  desire  more,  freedom  and.  .  . 

"You  court  failure  by  gazing  too  long  on  its 


264  Vagabond  City 

face,"  she  interrupted.  "How  can  you  be  so 
cowardly,  so  poor-spirited!  A  great  strong  man 
like  you,  who  never  knows  the  meaning  of  an  ache 
or  a  pain,  what  it  is  to  be  too  tired  to  sleep !  Look 
at  the  Book  of  the  Elf — as  you  will  call  it — it 's 
growing  day  by  day,  it 's  magnificent,  great 

"You  are  responsible  for  that  book,  not  I.  You 
inspired  it;  without  you  it  would  die.  I  wonder 
sometimes  if  it  will  ever  be  finished." 

"You  are  unstable  indeed,  if  you  can  talk  like 
that,  and  I  have  been  mistaken  in  you."  Her 
voice  rang  with  contempt.  "But  it  is  not  fate 
that  has  hindered  you — and  to  talk  of  'fate*  or 
'luck,'  is  no  excuse,  Mick.  Only  yourself  stands 
in  the  way  of  yourself. " 

He  turned  on  her  harshly,  stung  by  her  words, 
her  tones,  her  scornful  eyes.  "You  are  well- 
named  Elf,  a  thing  without  a  human  soul,  seeking 
only  to  dance  in  the  light,  a  will-o'-the-wisp  that 
leads  men  to  bottomless  morasses,  and  laughs 
when  they  founder  in  its  depths!  You  do  not 
really  understand,  and  you  do  not  really  care! 
You  kneel  but  to  one  god,  Art,  Ambition,  Success: 
Self !  Self !  Self ! "  The  words  burst  from  him  in  a 
torrent,  passed  beyond  his  control,  and  his  face 
was  ugly  with  passion. 

"How  dare  you!"  she  gasped,  amazement  in  her 
eyes.  "Do  you  think  I  will  listen  to  such  things 
from  you?" 

She  turned  to  go  inside  the  tent,  but  he  had 
seized  her  roughly  by  the  arm.  "You  are  cold 


Two  Persons  Return  to  Youth    265 

and  heartless  and  hard  as  a  frozen  sea!"  he  flung 
at  her  through  clenched  teeth. 

"A  frozen  sea!"  her  eyes  darted  fire.  "Let  my 
arm  go!"  She  strove  in  vain  to  wrest  it  from 
his  merciless  grip.  "Your  comparison  is  simply 
ridiculous!  A  frozen  sea!" 

"Then  I  must  find  another.  No  sea,  Elf,  rather 
foam  of  the  sea,"  and  quoted  bitterly: 

"We  take  no  thought  of  Heaven, 

Hell  we  shall  never  dree, 
We  are  as  light  as  foam-bells 

Blown  off  the  Cornish  sea. 
Children  of  wind  and  water 

The  fixed  earth  has  no  part 
In  us :  our  feet  are  wild-fire, 

And  wild-fire  's  in  our  heart!"1 

"I  hate  you,"  said  Miss  Elphenstonne  slowly. 

"Oh,  Elf,  freny  the  wild-fire  if  you  can!  It 
dances  in  your  feet  and  in  your  eyes,  but  where  's 
the  key  to  a  human  heart?"  His  voice  was  sad 
and  he  let  her  go  abruptly. 

For  a  long  moment  she  looked  at  his  sombre, 
suffering  face,  then  suddenly  she  held  out  her  hands, 
and  laughed.    "  Oh,  Mick,  what  an  unruly  membc 
is  the  tongue!     Let's  say  good-night  before  we 
say   unforgettable,   unforgivable   things! 
forgotten  twelve  and  thirteen   could  quarr      so 
easily,  but  they  make  up  easily,  too,  don't 
Her  smile  was  very  winning. 

1  The  Pisky  People,  Norah  Hopper. 


266  Vagabond  City 

'•  "Oh,  Elf,  Elf,"  he  cried  chokingly,  and  for  a 
moment  he  pressed  his  lips  against  her  hand.  "I 
was  a  brute,  I  did  n't  mean  it!  You  are  an  angel." 

"Heaven  forbid!"  she  ejaculated. 

"A  dear  human  angel.  Who  could  resist  you? — 
not  I.  You  play  what  tune  you  will  and  I  dance 
to  it!  I  shall  always  dance  to  your  piping,  Elf, 
no  matter  how  clumsy  my  feet  or  heavy  my  heart — 
like  the  Pied  Piper,  you  draw  me  after  you  as  you 
will." 

"Then  I  '11  pipe  you  to  fame  and  fortune,"  she 
cried  gaily. 

"Teach  me  to  forsake  the  substance  to  grasp  the 
shadow,"  he  returned,  "so  that  neither  in  this 
world  nor  the  next,  shall  I  lay  hold  of  either!  Oh, 
Elf,  you  and  I  are  shadow-seekers  in  a  world  that 
passes  swiftly,  derelicts  who  know  no  harbour.  ..." 

"Hush,  I  hate  you  to  talk  like  that!"  and  she 
shivered,  not  entirely  with  cold.  "Now  go,  Mick, 
before  you  sadden  me  further,  or  before  we  quarrel 
again.  I  feel  very  contrary  just  now." 

She  stood  looking  after  his  strong  frame  till  the 
shadows  swallowed  him  up,  and  even  then  still 
stared  out  into  the  gathering  darkness,  her  small 
face  very  drawn  and  pale.  How  grey  everything 
had  suddenly  become,  what  a  grey  world  it  was 
after  all!  How  quickly  youth  passed,  while  hap- 
piness was  so  far  to  seek,  and  the  path  of  achieve- 
ment so  very  steep  and  long! 

She  was  not  twelve  now:  rather  many  times 
twelve;  a  chilled  and  weary  woman  no  longer 


Two  Persons  Return  to  Youth    267 

young,  no  longer  invincible,  no  longer  lit  with  the 
divine  flame  from  within;  she  had  never  taken 
failure  into  consideration,  but  she  had  to  take  it 
into  consideration  now.  She  realised  that  if  she 
lost  that  on  which  she  had  set  her  whole  heart, 
there  would  be  nothing  left. 

She  shivered  as  an  icy  wind  struck  her,  but  still 
she  stared  into  the  shadows,  the  high  flag  of  her 
courage  lowered.  Was  Mick  right?  Were  shad- 
ows all  the  realities  he  and  she  were  to  know?  Did 
they  follow  the  wrong  gods?  Had  they  flung 
away  their  birthright  of  careless,  unthinking  joy 
for  this? 

The  hour, — when  the  sleeping  world  turns  over 
with  a  sigh, — passed  and  still  she  did  not  move,  still 
she  saw  Mick  walking  into  the  shadows,  saw  him 
swallowed  up  by  the  blackness.  A  horrible  sense 
of  foreboding  shook  her,  like  a  hot  knife  drawn 
slowly  across  her  heart.  It  was  as  if  she  was  look- 
ing on  his  art  in  life,  and  found  the  sight  an  agony. 
Not  for  Mick  darkness  only,  surely!  In  a  little 
time  the  dawn  would  glorify  the  earth — and  joy 
cometh  in  the  morning! 

Then,  just  as  she  was,  wet  and  weary,  she  flung 
herself  across  her  bed,  and  fell  into  the  deep  sleep 
of  utter  exhaustion. 


CHAPTER  XV 

A  MATTER  OF  CONSEQUENCES 

MICK  was  rather  late  for  breakfast,  and 
Esmerelda  eyed  him  disagreeably,  as  one 
who  suspected  the  worst.  The  night's  expedition 
had  not  told  on  the  young  man's  iron  strength; 
he  ate  rather  more  than  usual,  that  was  all. 

"What  a  huge  appetite  you  have!"  remarked 
Muriel — not  for  the  first  time;  it  was  rather  an 
extravagant  possession  for  a  poor  man,  she 
considered. 

"Yes,"  he  agreed  good-humouredly.  "I'm  a 
pretty  useful  trencher-man.  They  called  me 
'The  Wolf'  at  Cambridge.  But  don't  worry, 
Muriel;  from  what  I  heard  from  my  literary  agent 
this  morning  I  rather  fancy  we  shall  be  able  to 
support  it." 

While  he  talked  to  Muriel,  he  was  thinking  of 
Miss  Elphenstonne,  hoping  she  would  stay  in  bed 
till  noon,  but  doubting  it.  When  did  that  active 
brain  and  body  ever  consent  to  rest? 

"Aunt  Susan  and  I  are  going  into  Southampton 
for  the  day,"  returned  Muriel.  "We  thought  we  'd 
ride  to  the  station  and  get  back  in  time  for  supper. 
Aunt  Susan  is  going  to  buy  a  new  coat  and  skirt." 

268 


A  Matter  of  Consequences       269 

"How  awfully  exciting!  But  why  should  she 
have  all  the  fun?  Buy  one  for  yourself  too, 
Muriel,  and  hat  and  blouse  and  everything  you 
can  think  of  to  match.  Get  the  best  in  the  town, 
and  send  the  bill  to  me." 

Muriel's  eyes  sparkled,  then  her  face  fell. 

"  But  ought  I  ?  You  know,  Mick,  you  are  rather 
extravagant,  and  though  I  love  clothes  and  do 
rather  want  a  new  costume,  I  'd  rather  go  without 
than  buy  what  we  can't  afford." 

"I  thought  women  never  really  enjoyed  shop- 
ping unless  they  were  buying  what  they  could  n't 
afford,"  he  returned,  with  a  grin.  "But  we  can 
afford  anything  in  reason.  I  don't  mind  telling 
you  I  Ve  done  rather  well — financially — one  way 
and  another  lately.  There  was  that  mining 
speculation,  and  another  little  flutter,  and  some 
writing  stuff.  I  'm  a  lucky  devil  when  it  comes  to 
money  ..."  his  face  clouded  for  a  moment,  for 
there  had  risen  to  disturb  him  a  vision  of  the 
Elf  dancing  on  the  bruised  leaves,  the  moonlight 
clinging  to  the  silver  of  her  hair.  "Still  one  can't 
have  every  sort  of  luck,"  he  added  slowly,  "and 
the  majority  would  give  their  ears  for  mine. 
Most  men  make  futile  dashes  after  money;  me 
it  pursues.  ..." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Muriel,  her  eyes 
very  bright  with  excitement.  "Have  you  really 
made  more?  Oh,  Mick,  you  are  wonderful  after 
all!"  She  caught  his  arm. 

"I  shall  have  ten  thousand  pounds  securely 


270  Vagabond  City 

invested  very  shortly,"  he  returned,  "perhaps  a 
little  more.  You  can  count  on  five  hundred  a 
year  of  your  own — 

4 '  You  cannot  mean  it !    How  have  you  done  it  ?  " 

"Oh  .  .  .  there  are  ways  and  means,"  he 
returned  vaguely.  "  I  Ve  got  useful  friends  when 
it  comes  to  speculations,  and  they  don't  mind  me 
dipping  in  their  lucky  bag ;  then  there  's  a  pub- 
lisher-johnny— He  said  nothing  of  a  Doubtful 
Duchess  now  close  on  its  sixtieth  thousand,  or  of 
a  Doubtful  Duke  already  in  the  press. 

"Then  we  may  leave  here,  look  about  for  a 
nice  house?" 

"In  October,"  he  returned  (Miss  Elphenstonne 
was  to  leave  in  October).  "My  affairs  will  not 
be  settled  before  then.  I  am  going  to  settle  the 
money  on  you,  and  you  shall  spend  it  as  you  like. 
I — I  may  have  to  go  abroad.  ..."  He  did  not 
look  at  her. 

This  announcement  caused  her  no  grief.  He 
had  made  money  for  her  and  could  make  more. 
She  had  not  married  a  failure  after  all!  Her 
friends  would  envy  her  when  they  knew.  Five 
hundred  a  year  for  her  very  own !  Regret  stirred 
for  a  moment.  It  seemed  such  a  pity  she  should 
be  married  to  Mick;  scarcely  necessary  now;  free, 
and  with  that  money  she  could  make  a  much  more 
congenial  match.  But  of  course  it  was  too  late, 
and,  after  all,  he  had  given  her  the  money  to  make 
her  independent.  It  was  very  wonderful,  very 
generous;  and  yet  she  could  not  care  any  the  more 


A  Matter  of  Consequences       271 

for  him,  which  puzzled  her.  She  was  very  pleased, 
even  a  little  proud,  but  that  was  all.  Mick  was 
leaving  her  practically  free,  and  if  he  went  abroad 
for  some  time — and  she  hoped  he  would — there 
would  be  no  disturbing  influence  in  the  smart 
suburban  house.  When  they  came  together  again 
after  a  little  absence,  things  would  be  sure  to  go 
better  between  them.  After  a  trip  abroad  he 
would  of  course  settle  down  and  be  sensible — 
more  like  other  people. 

As  soon  as  Mick  had  swallowed  his  breakfast, 
he  went  round  to  see  if  Miss  Elphenstonne  had 
obeyed  his  instructions  to  stay  in  bed ;  he  was  glad 
to  see  no  sign  of  her  anywhere  about  and  to  find 
the  outer  tent  empty.  Plainly  she  had  break- 
fasted in  bed  and  was  even  now  asleep.  He  was 
turning  softly  away  when  he  heard  his  name 
called  in  a  low  husky  whisper;  then  followed  a 
violent  fit  of  coughing. 

Without  ceremony  he  burst  into  the  tiny  bed- 
room. He  discovered  the  girl,  still  dressed, 
lying  huddled  on  the  outside  of  the  bed,  shivering 
with  cold,  her  face  livid,  her  eyes  glassy  and 
frightened. 

"Oh,  I  Ve  got  such  an  awful  cold,"  she  whis- 
pered. "My  voice  is  almost  gone,  and  it 's  my 
nose  that 's  red  and  swollen  not  the  uncle's  and 
aunt's."  She  forced  a  very  faint  smile,  but  ended 
in  a  whimper.  "  I  rather  think  I  'm  going  to  die  ^ 

"Still  in  your  damp  clothes,  your  wet  s 
shouted    Mick.     "Good    God,    hasn't    even    a 


272  Vagabond  City 

woman  sense  at  thirty!"  He  was  too  much 
alarmed  and  annoyed  with  the  girl's  mad  folly 
to  be  very  diplomatic. 

"I  'm  twenty-nine,"  returned  the  accused,  with 
husky  indignation,  "and  I  won't  be  called  'only 
a  woman'!" 

'"Even, 'I  said!  Where 's  Ma  Bella?  Hasn't 
she  been  here  yet?"  "Ma  Bella"  they  had  chris- 
tened the  pretty,  young,  labourer's  wife  who  came 
over  daily  from  No  Man's  Land  to  make  an  early 
breakfast  for  the  artist,  and  both  had  forgotten 
her  real  name. 

"Her  .  .  .  sister  's  .  .  .  going  ...  to  ...  have  .  .  . 
a  ...  baby,"  panted  Miss  Elphenstonne  faintly, 
"and  therefore  she  cannot  come." 

"But  Ma  Bella  can  come — she  's  not  having  the 
baby,"  fumed  Mick.  "Just  like  'em — always 
making  excuses!  Mrs.  Hobbs  is  as  bad!" 

"Oh,  Mick  .  .  .  how  funny  you  are!"  The  in- 
valid burst  into  a  fit  of  painful,  husky  laughter, 
which  was  succeeded  by  an  exhausting  fit  of 
coughing. 

"Oh,  what  a  little  fool  you  are!"  he  cried  de- 
spairingly. "What's  there  to  laugh  at?  You 
must  have  your  wet  things  off  at  once,  and  get 
warm  in  bed!"  He  was  shocked  at  his  own  help- 
lessness, yet  he  had  acted  nurse  skilfully  enough 
to  a  sick  man  more  than  once.  "Have  you  a 
hot  water  bottle?" 

Miss  Elphenstonne,  who  lay  more  dead  than 
alive,  jerked  her  knees  convulsively,  but  he 


A  Matter  of  Consequences        273 

grabbed    them   firmly,    "You're    not   to   kugh 
again — you  shall  not,  Elf!" 

"But  you're  so  funny!"  she  coughed.  "Oh, 
dear!"  she  closed  her  eyes  with  a  shudder,  the 
spirit  dying  slowly  out  of  her  under  waves  of 
deadly  nausea. 

"You  must  get  your  wet  things  off,"  he  said 
again.  "Can  you  manage?" 

She  struggled  to  a  sitting  position,  leaning 
helplessly  against  him,  and  looking  very  grey  and 
plain  and  old.  "I  feel  so  sick,"  she  moaned,  "and 
I  fasten  at  the  back." 

"That  's  all  right,"  he  said  consolingly,  putting 
his  arm  round  her.  "After  all,  being  married 
has  its  advantages.  Muriel  fastens  at  the  back 
too.  Now — one  minute,  dear." 

She  subsided,  a  backboneless  heap,  into  his 
arms.  "I  'm  sure  I  'm  going  to  be  sick — please 
go,  Mick,"  she  murmured  fearfully. 

"You  '11  be  all  right  when  you  're  safely  in  bed." 

"But  there  are  millions  of  buttons  on  this 
dress,"  she  complained,  "millions — 

"Oh,  not  as  many  as  that,"  he  said,  a  little  rue- 
fully, having  contemplated  a  somewhat  numerous 
array.  "Surely,  if  Ma  Bella  can  do  them,  I  can 
undo  them.  When  did  you  last  see  her?  When 
is  she  coming?  Where  can  I  find  her?" 

Miss  Elphenstonne  was,  however,  quite  beyond 
coherent  replies. 

Mick  unfastened  her  dress  skilfully  enough, 
and  drew  it  over  her  head. 

18 


274  Vagabond  City 

"Now,  old  girl,  there  are  no  more  back  fasten- 
ings, and  you  can  manage  the  rest  even  if  you  do 
feel  sick  and  weak,  if  you  make  up  your  mind 
to  it — and  you  Ve  got  to  make  up  your  mind  to 
it,  do  you  hear?  I  '11  give  you  five  minutes  to 
get  into  your  night-dress  and  bed."  He  put  the 
night-dress  by  her  side,  and  stood  up.  "Five 
minutes,  mind!" 

When  he  returned,  Miss  Elphenstonne  was  in 
bed,  but  almost  on  the  verge  of  tears.  She  had 
never  been  ill  or  helpless  in  her  life  before,  and 
the  usual  feminine  spirit  of  stoicism  was  entirely 
lacking.  Either  Muriel  or  Miss  Dalton  would 
have  made  a  braver  and  more  patient  invalid. 

" Five  minutes!"  choked  the  victim  of  her  own 
folly,  "you  Ve  been  forty!  Bu,t  I  suppose  it 
would  n't  have  mattered  if  I  had  died  in  the 
meanwhile!"  She  retired  under  the  bed-clothes 
with  an  inelegant  sniff. 

"Died — from  a  silly  little  cold!"  he  laughed 
very  loudly  to  hide  his  own  panic-stricken  terror, 
the  invalid  looked  very  ill  indeed. 

"I  was  getting  Muriel's  hot  water  bottle,  for 
one  thing—  "  he  began. 

"I  don't  want  it,"  said  Miss  Elphenstonne,  as 
stiffly  as  circumstances  would  permit.  That 
Mick  should  go  and  leave  her  for  ages,  be  so 
cheerful  over  her  misfortunes,  not  really  mind 
much  whether  she  died  or  not! 

Mick  had,  however,  already  placed  it  against 
the  girl's  icy  feet,  and  a  scream  burst  from  the 


A  Matter  of  Consequences       275 

invalid.  "You've  burnt  me,"  she  said,  with 
angry  tears  in  her  eyes.  "Oh,  I  never  knew  you 
could  be  so  cruel  and  beastly,  Mick!" 

Mick,  who  of  the  two  was  almost  more  to  be 
pitied,  grabbed  the  burning  bottle,  and  looked 
helplessly  round  the  room.  He  caught  sight  of  a 
thick  flannel  blouse,  and  wrapped  the  bottle  in 
that  before  replacing  it  in  the  bed, — this  time  a 
few  inches  away  from  her  feet. 

"Is  that  better?"  he  asked  humbly. 

She  felt  unequal  to  a  reply. 

"  I  made  a  linseed  poultice  too,"  explained  Mick. 
"I  found  out  how  from  Miss  Dalton's  Enquire 
Within.  It  was  quite  easy,  and  it  *s  hot  as  blazes 
too."  He  gave  a  little  hop  as  he  spoke,  but  cer- 
tainly his  bearing  exhibited  pride  and  vainglory. 

"No,  you  shan't  burn  my  chest  too!"  screamed 
the  girl,  in  terror,  retiring  entirely  under  the 
clothes. 

His  face  fell.  "But  I  meant  it  for  the  best, 
Elfkin." 

Miss  Elphenstonne  poked  a  scarlet,  swollen 
nose  from  under  the  sheet.  "  Of  course  it  does  n't 
matter — as  long  as  you  enjoy  yourself!"  she  said, 
resenting  his  cheerful  attitude.  "And  I  won't 
have  that  poultice." 

"Oh,  if  you'd  rather  not  .  .  ."  he  eyed  her 
warily. 

She  was  lying  back  on  her  pillows  now,  and  his 
quick  eyes  noted  the  fact  that  she  had  been  too 
weary  to  fasten  the  neck  of  her  night-dress. 


276  Vagabond  City 

With  swift,  skilful  movements  he  clapped  the 
reeking  poultice  on  her  chest,  and  then  buttoned 
up  her  night-gown,  and  this  time  he  had,  perhaps 
a  right  to  feel  proud 

"Oh  .  .  .  !"  cried  Miss  Elphenstonne,  with  a 
wail  of  utter  dismay.  "It 's  not  the  being  burnt, 
but  the  smell  ...  I  feel  ever  so  much  sicker  .  .  . 
ugh  .  .  .  !"  Her  face  turned  a  deadly  shade  and 
she  shuddered  so  violently  that  her  long  hair  fell 
over  her  eyes. 

"Poor  baby  kin,"  said  Mick  very  softly,  his 
harsh,  virile  face  strangely  tender.  His  strong, 
brown  fingers,  willing  if  clumsy,  twisted  the  long, 
tangled  hair  into  a  thick,  uneven  plait. 

"That 's  out  of  the  way,  at  least,"  he  said. 

"Oh,"  wailed  Miss  Elphenstonne  inconse- 
quently,  "how  hideous  I  must  be  looking!" 

"You're  feeling  better!"  exclaimed  Mick, 
cheering  up.  Surely  the  awakening  of  vanity 
was  a  good  sign! 

"No,  I  'm  not,"  said  she,  offended. 

"I  'm  going  to  leave  you  for  a  bit,  and  fetch 
Doctor  Byrne." 

"I  did  n't  know  there  was  a  doctor." 

"Oh,  Elf,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  so  much! 
It  makes  your  cough  worse!  Of  course  there  's 
a  doctor,  not  half  a  bad  chap  either.  I  '11  run 
round  on  my  bike.  It  won't  take  long." 

"Is  he  married?" 

"No." 

"Quite  old?" 


A  Matter  of  Consequences       277 

"Oh,  anywhere  from  forty  to  fifty " 

"And  passably  good  looking?" 
"I  daresay,  but  he  's  a  good  doctor- 


"Then  I  shall  want  my  night-dress  with  the 
real  lace  and  pink  ribbons,"  announced  Miss 
Elphenstonne. 

He  gave  an  impatient  laugh.  "You  women! 
What 's  wrong  with  the  one  you  've  got  on? 
It 's  a  sensible-looking  thing,  just  right  for  a 
tent— 

"That 's  just  what  is  wrong  with  it,"  she  re- 
torted huskily.  "I  want  the  one  I  bought  in 
Paris  and  have  n't  worn  yet.  Get  it  out  of  the 
bottom  drawer  and  give  it  me  before  you  go!" 
She  spoke  as  imperiously  as  circumstances  would 
permit. 

"I  shall  do  no  such  thing!"  Mick  was  really 
angry.  "The  idea  of  your  changing,  taking  fresh 
cold  perhaps,  dislodging  my  lovely  poultice— 

"Lovely  poultice  indeed!  You  wouldn't  say 
that  if  it  was  on  your  own  chest!  It 's  a  perfect 
beast  of  a  poultice!" 

"Oh,  you   are  feeling  better!"   he  exclaimed 

positively. 

"I'mnot,"she  declared,  even  more  positively. 
"  I  'm  worse;  and  I  want  the  French  night-dress. " 
She  pointed  weakly  to  the  bottom  drawer  of 
the  convertible  trunk.  "Do  you  think  I  paid 
seven  pounds  for  that  night-dress  for  it  to  be 

wasted?" 

"Seven  pounds!    Why  anything  does  to  sleep 


278  Vagabond  City 

in!"  gasped  Mick.  "That's  real,  wicked  ex- 
travagance!" 

"Anything  to  sleep  in — unbleached  calico  I 
suppose!  How  like  a  man!  If  you  don't  get 
it  for  me  I  shall  get  it  myself  as  soon  as  you 
are  gone."  Her  lips  set  obstinately. 

"Oh,  very  well — you  little  idiot!"  He  tore  the 
dainty  creation  of  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  out  of  the 
drawer  and  almost  flung  it  at  her. 

"And  the  hand-glass,"  she  groaned  faintly, 
between  violent  bouts  of  coughing,  "and  brush 
and  comb,  and  ribbons  in  little  drawer  at  the  top, 
and  that  round  silver  box  there  .  .  .  and  put 
the  dressing-table  against  my  bed.  ..." 

He  could  have  shaken  her,  but  instead  did  as 
he  was  told.  "You  can't  really  be  feeling  very 
ill,  certainly  not  sick,  or  you  would  n't  behave  in 
this  idiotic  fashion,"  he  insisted. 

"But  I  do!"  she  groaned,  truthfully  enough. 
Then,  as  she  saw  her  utterly  repulsive  image  in 
the  glass,  she  gave  a  gasp  of  horror.  "Oh,  I 
can't  let  a  doctor  see  me  while  I  look  like  this — 
wait  till  I  feel  a  little  better " 

But  Mick — his  patience  exhausted — had  gone. 

That  Elf — the  genius,  the  great  Miss  Elphen- 
stonne — could  be  so  utterly  silly,  so  cross,  so 
unheroic!  Elf  whom  he  had  deemed — and  still 
deemed — superior  to  all  women!  And  yet  he 
loved  her  none  the  less  for  it,  though  she  had  made 
him  really  angry  and  impatient !  The  little  idiot — 
the  blessed  little  idiot!  He  obtained  a  promise 


from  Miss  Byrne  that  her  brother  should  be  told 
of  the  urgent  need  for  his  presence  the  moment  he 
came  back  from  his  rounds,  and,  much  relieved, 
returned  to  the  invalid  with  the  good  news. 
He  found  her — to  a  certain  extent — transformed. 
She  was  wearing  the  exquisite  French  night-dress 
with  a  curious  shade  of  pink  ribbons  which  under 
happier  circumstances  was  ' '  her  colour."  Her  hair 
had  been  parted  in  the  middle  and  lay  over  the 
counterpane  in  two  magnificent  plaits,  tied  with 
ribbon  of  the  same  shade.  She  looked  perhaps  a 
little  less  appallingly  hideous;  one  could  not  say 
more  than  that,  and  Mick  saw  no  difference 
whatsoever. 

He  eyed  her  for  some  moments  in  stem  disap- 
proval. 

"You've  been  powdering  your  nose!"  he 
exclaimed. 

"It 's  my  own  nose,"  she  returned  defiantly. 

"Vaseline  would  have  been  more  sensible." 

"And  make  it  redder  and  shinier  than  ever!" 

That  all  this  trouble  had  been  taken  for  a 
strange  man,  made  Mick  suddenly  sick  with 
jealousy. 

"Would   it   have   made  any  difference?" 

asked  cruelly. 

She  glared  at  him.     "What  do  you  mean? 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  was  silent. 

Miss  Elphenstonne  snatched  up  the  hand-glsss, 
looked  at  herself,  and  laid  it  down  with  a  shudder. 
"Dear  Heaven,  I  look  exactly  like  a  sick  monkey, 


280  Vagabond  City 

scarcely  human,  and  as  old — as  old  as  the  hills!" 
she  sobbed. 

Mick  did  not  contradict  her;  her  simile  was 
only  too  apt.  "But  you  are  always  the  same 
Elf,  to  me,  whether  you  're  looking  beautiful  or — 
or  not  beautiful,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on  hers. 

She  pushed  it  away.  "Oh,  say  ugly,  hideous, 
and  be  done  with  it!"  she  exclaimed  pettishly. 
"What  does  it  matter?" 

"Not  a  rap,"  he  returned.  "One  always  looks 
bad  in  such  circumstances.  It 's  expected  of 
one,  and  the  least  one  can  do,  but  you  seem  to 
mind  so  dreadfully.  And  I  never  suspected  you 
of  vanity  before!"  he  gazed  at  her,  puzzled. 

"Vanity!  It's  merely  self-respect,"  returned 
Miss  Elphenstonne  huffily.  "Men  haven't  any. 
That 's  all  the  difference." 

"They  don't  rig  themselves  out  for  their  doctors, 
anyway,"  he  returned,  with  a  jealous  scowl.  "As 
if  doctors  counted!" 

"They  count  just  a  little  when  they  aren't 
married,"  said  Miss  Elphenstonne  wearily,  "and 
if  he  's  nice  I  'd  rather  he  had  n't  to  remember 
how  hideous  I  could  look,  for  he  'd  never  forget 
his  first  impression " 

"He's  rather  stout,  and — I  should  think — all 
of  five  and  forty,  and  I  imagine  you  might  just 
as  well  have  left  the  powder  alone."  He  took  up 
the  silver  box,  examining  it  and  its  contents 
minutely  as  he  spoke.  "Muriel  has  some  on  the 
dressing-table,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  but  she 


281 

says  she  only  uses  it  to  go  to  balls,  and  we  have  n't 
got  any  invitations — so  far !  Why  is  yours  pink  ? ' ' 

"My  skin  is  dark;  your  wife  has  a  lovely,  fair 
skin,  and  can  stand  white." 

He  sniffed  at  it.  "It  smells  very  familiar,"  he 
observed  thoughtfully,  and  taking  the  puff  pro- 
ceeded absently  to  dab  at  his  own  face.  Miss 
Elphenstonne  watched  him  as  unconsciously  he 
covered  his  face  with  pink  patches,  and  she 
smiled. 

"Why,  you're  better  already!"  he  exclaimed, 
joyfully  misreading  her  pleased  expression.  "It 
must  be  the  poultice.  Is  it  still  warm?" 

"If  you  look  under  the  bed  you'll  find  out," 
retorted  the  invalid.  "I  wasn't  going  to  allow 
it  to  spoil  my  best  night-dress.  Yes,  I  really  do 
feel  a  little  better.  Oh,  Mick,  how  wormish  you 
must  have  thought  me  at  first,  but  I  felt  so  weak, 
so  deadly  sick,  so  frightened!  That  sort  of  thing 
takes  all  the  spirit  out  of  one.  I  was  terrified!" 

1 '  So  was  I, "  he  owned  frankly.  ' '  And  of  course 
it  was  all  my  fault!  And  then,  my  wife  and  Miss 
Dalton  both  being  away  for  the  day,  and  nobody 
to  help  us!" 

"Are  you  sure  Mrs.  Talbot  won't  mind  your 
being  here?"  she  asked,  a  little  awkwardly. 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  answered  truthfully.  "  She  won't 
mind  in  the  least.  She  '11  think  it  odd,  of  course, 
and  your  taste  odder,  and  Miss  Dalton  will  say 
she  doesn't  consider  it  'nice,'  and  would  be 
awfully  shocked  if  she  guessed  about  the  poultice.. 


282  Vagabond  City 

Personally  I  should  have  thought  a  poultice  too 
unpleasant  to  be  improper!  Here  's  Dr.  Byrne,  I 
fancy.  I  will  go  and  explain." 

Dr.  Byrne's  face  certainly  should  have  been 
his  fortune,  inasmuch  as  it  never  hinted  to  the 
most  nervous  patient  that  he  was  very  bad  indeed, 
though,  on  the  other  hand,  when  recovery  was 
likely,  it  seemed  to  assure  it  from  the  first.  Now 
it  showed  no  surprise  when  a  young  man  came  out 
of  an  unmarried  lady's  room  with  smears  of  pink 
powder  all  over  his  face  and  coat.  It  might  have 
been  the  usual  thing.  Inwardly,  however,  he  was 
very  much  surprised  to  find  the  young  man's 
manner  so  totally  free  from  any  embarrassment, 
from  anything  but  anxiety,  and  a  certain  possessive 
air.  Since  he  knew  him  as  a  honeymoon  husband, 
the  situation  was  odd,  to  say  the  least  of  it.  He 
listened  to  Mick's  clear  explanations,  and  then 
went  to  see  the  patient,  in  whom  already  he  felt 
a  strong  interest.  Nothing  escaped  his  notice — 
the  powdered  nose,  the  valuable  night-dress,  the 
gorgeous  plaits!  He  could  even  imagine  the 
invalid  attractive  when  free  from  the  disfigure- 
ment of  a  violent  cold.  Doctor  and  patient  were 
friends  at  once,  and  Dr.  Byrne  showed  himself 
in  no  hurry  to  go.  His  rounds  were  over  for  the 
time  being,  his  surgery  work  two  hours  off,  and 
he  had  only  a  dull,  complaining  sister,  and  ugly, 
bare  house  to  return  to. 

Mick  waited  outside,  his  anxiety  growing  greater 
as  the  visit  dragged  on,  and  he  feared  the  report 


A  Matter  of  Consequences        283 

could  only  be  very  serious.  Was  the  Elf  dying? 
The  world  suddenly  went  black,  and  he  drowned 
in  smothering  darkness.  Then  Dr.  Byrne  came 
out  of  the  tent,  and  Mick,  his  face  white  and 
drawn,  rushed  at  him.  "Well?"  he  cried,  seizing 
him  by  the  arm.  "What  is  it?" 

The  Doctor  gave  one  quick  look  into  Mick's 
betraying  eyes,  and  then  laughed  easily.  "My 
dear  fellow,  it  's  nothing  but  a  very  severe  cold — 
as  yet — and  need  go  no  farther,  with  care.  She 
must  be  sensible,  and  do  as  she  's  told." 

"She  's  never  sensible;  she  never  does  as  she  's 
told,"  returned  Mick,  in  despair. 

"So  I  suspected!  Wants  to  drive  somewhat 
inadequate  engines  at  full  pressure,  just  so! 
Never  rusts  out.  Well,  if  you  have  any  influence 
you  must  make  her  obey  me — frighten  her  into 
it,  if  necessary.  I  Ve  already  succeeded  in 
alarming  her  sufficiently  to  ensure  her  staying  in 
bed  for  a  day  or  two,  till  her  chest  is  quite  clear- 
it  's  not  a  chest  to  be  trifled  with." 

"Is  she — is  she  very  delicate?"  Mick's  voice 
betrayed  him,  if  his  eyes  had  not  already  done  so, 
and  there  was  anything  left  to  betray  to  the  sharp- 
sighted  man  opposite. 

The  doctor  was  pretty  certain  that  his  new 
patient  would  not  make  "old  bones,"  but  assured 
Mick  that  the  delicate  ones  often  lasted  the  longest 
—with  care.  "Only  there  must  be  care,  no 
undue  rashness,  no  overwork,"  he  said,  a  little 
sternly.  "What  does  this  woman  do?  Is  she  a 


284  Vagabond  City 

writer?    Whatever  it  is,  she  works  too  hard.     I 
did  not  catch  her  name — if  you  mentioned  it?" 

"Miss  Elphenstonne,"  said  Mick,  and  burst 
out.  "Work!  She  '11  never  rest!" 

"Not  the  artist?"  Dr.  Byrne's  face  lit  up. 

Mick  nodded  curtly. 

"I  spoke  of  her  work  before,  how  wonderfully 
good  and  promising  I  thought  it." 

"'Promising!'"  Mick's  voice  was  scornful. 
"It 's  more  than  that:  it 's  genius,  man!" 

"A  big  word,"  said  Dr.  Byrne,  almost  warningly. 
"And  used  a  little  too  freely  among  your  world, 
I  sometimes  think.  We  have  our  famous  writers 
and  painters,  even  our  great  writers  and  painters, 
but  there  's  seldom  more  than  one  genius  to  one 
generation,  and  they  don't  always  come  to  their 
own  till  another  generation  arises.  ..." 

"But  she  will,"  said  Mick  certainly,  "and  you 
— you  seem  to  know  about  art — shall  acknowledge 
it  too!  Come  quietly  inside  the  outer  tent  for  a 
moment,  and  I  will  show  you  the  picture  that  the 
world  is  going  to  acclaim  as  a  masterpiece.  It  is 
not  quite  finished,  but  it  shows  enough,  I  think," 
and  he  explained  in  a  few  words  the  meaning  of 
the  picture. 

Then  he  took  the  doctor  inside  and  removed 
the  sheet  that  hid  "The  Shadow  cloaked  from 
head  to  foot  that  keeps  the  keys  of  all  the  creeds." 
Dr.  Byrne's  rugged  brown  face  lit  up,  and  for  a 
long  time  he  gazed  in  silence,  while  slowly  the 
colour  left  his  face.  He  did  not  speak,  he  was 


A  Matter,  of  Consequences        285 

moved  beyond  words,  but  he  took  off  his  hat,  and 
stood  silent  for  a  long  while  before  what  was  one 
day  to  be  one  of  the  greatest  pictures  of  the  age. 
Then  they  went  slowly  out. 

"You  are  right,"  said  the  doctor  curtly,  "it 's 
genius — almost  terrible — and  genius  is  no  fit 
occupant  for  that  woman's  frail  body.  As  a 
doctor  I  can  but  deplore  it ;  as  a  lover  of  art  I  can 
but  bow  before  it.  Thank  you — I  am  glad  to 
have  seen  it." 

He  mounted  his  bicycle  and  rode  quickly  home, 
his  face  very  thoughtful.  He  had  expected  some- 
thing strange  in  that  tent  on  the  moors;  but  he 
had  not  expected  anything  so  strange  as  this;  and 
there  was  much  about  the  situation  he  did  not 
like.  Mick  had  no  right  to  be  in  the  foreground 
of  the  picture.  It  was  not  the  question  of  morality 
that  troubled  him;  rather  the  question  of  expedi- 
ency. Mick  could  not  help  this  greatly-gifted 
woman,  he  could  only  hinder  her,  perhaps  even 
hurt  her;  make  both  the  woman  and  the  artist 
suffer.  His  examination  had  revealed  much  that 
he  did  not  care  about,  especially  in  such  a  puny 
body  possessed  of  the  too-strenuous  temperament. 
Health  and  strength  and  length  of  days,  such  as 
she  had  prayed  for,  would  certainly  not  be  the 
lot  of  Miss  Elphenstonne,  unless  she  turned  over 
a  new  leaf.  Dr.  Byrne  wondered  if  he  would  have 
the  power  to  make  her,  and,  because  he  knew  his 
own  limitations,  doubted  it. 

"He's  quite  a  nice  man,"  said  Miss  Elphen- 


286  Vagabond  City 

stonne  contentedly,  as  Mick  sat  down  on  the  chair 
by  her  side.  "Of  course,  it's  a  pity  he  has  a 
beard.  .  .  .  What  were  you  whispering  about 
in  the  studio?  I  won't  take  a  lot  of  horrid  medi- 
cine. Do  you  think  he  's  more  than  forty- three? 
He  noticed  my  hair  and  my  night-dress,  though,  of 
course,  he  pretended  not  to." 

Mick  made  an  impatient  sound.  "Look 
here — "  he  began. 

"And  the  curious  shade  of  pink,  I  'm  sure  he  'd 
never  seen  any  the  same  before." 

"Are  you  alluding  to  your  nose?  Or  the 
powder?" 

In  revenge  she  held  the  hand-glass  in  front  of 
his  face.  "Who  are  you  to  be  superior  about 
powder?"  she  demanded  triumphantly. 

He  stared  horrified.  "And  you  let  me  go  and 
meet  him  like  that !  What  would  the  fellow  think ! 
Confound  him,  his  face  never  moved!" 

"He  would  think — if  he  didn't  already  know 
it — that  vanity  is  by  no  means  confined  to  the 
fair  sex!"  she  retorted. 

"Well,  don't  let's  quarrel."  He  wiped  his 
face  clear.  "After  all,  it  might  have  been  ink 
or  blacking!  Now,  Elf,  I  Ve  got  to  talk  to  you 
seriously.  He  does  n't  like  your  condition  at  all. 
He  says  you  must  stay  in  bed,  and  take  every  care 
till  your  chest  is  all  right,  if  you  don't  want  pneu- 
monia or  one  of  those  things,  and  to  be  fed  up  and 
go  slower  afterwards  in  future.  If  you  are  good, 
you  may  be  up  at  the  end  of  a  week." 


A  Matter  of  Consequences        287 

"A  whole  week  wasted ! "  her  eyes  were  horrified. 
"And  I  Ve  never  wasted  a  day  in  my  life " 

" The  more  's  the  pity!" 

"I  shall  get  up  to-morrow  and  go  on  with  The 
Shadow.  A  week  out  of  my  life — and  life  so 
short!" 

"The  fellow  insisted " 

"He  's  an  unpleasant  man,  and  I  wish  you 
had  n't  made  him  come!"  she  burst  out  illogically, 
"and  I  Ve  always  disliked  beards,  always!  Of 
course  when  people  have  silly  little  chins  .  .  .  per- 
haps he  'd  lose  his  patients  if  he  shaved." 

"I  showed  him  your  picture,"  said  Mick,  with 
diplomacy.  "He  took  off  his  hat,  was  struck  all 
of  a  heap,  and  said  you  would  be  world-famous — 
if  you  did  n't  chuck  your  life  away  first!" 

"I  daresay  his  chin  is  quite  nice,"  conceded  the 
artist,  with  shining  eyes.  "Perhaps  I  '11  stay  in 
bed  for  a  day  or  two:  perhaps  I  '11  go  just  a  leetle 
slower,  henceforth." 

"Perhaps!"  echoed  Mick  grimly.  "When  the 
devil  is  sick,  the  devil  a  monk  would  be,  but  when 
the  devil  is  well,  the  devil  a  monk  is  he!" 

"Well,  it 's  human  nature,"  said  Miss  Elphen- 
stonne,  "and  nothing  is  ever  going  to  alter  that, 
Mick?" 

"Yes." 

"He  wanted  to  know  how  I  got  such  a  violent 
cold  all-in-a-minute.  Curious  people  doctors! 
My  age  too.  Thought  I  was  lying  when  I  said 
twenty-nine  and  only  smiled  when  I  altered  it 


288  Vagabond  City 

•* 

to  'nearly  thirty.'  He  thought  I  was  forty 
really.  I  look  it— beast!" 

"What  did  you  tell  him  about  catching  cold?" 

"Nothing.     Did  you?" 

"I  certainly  did  n't.  It 's  not  his  business  how 
you  got  it.  His  job  is  to  get  you  clear  of  it." 

"But  I  somehow  believe  he  suspected  all  the 
same." 

"Impossible!  Who  would  suspect  a  grown 
woman  of  such  insanity!" 

"He  seemed  an  understanding  sort  of  person. 
I  don't  believe  I  'd  mind  him  knowing — awfully. 
He  would  n't  misunderstand,  and  he  does  n't 
belong  to  the  race  of  Philistines." 

"He's  a  doctor,  not  a  Sherlock  Holmes,"  re- 
turned Mick,  a  little  sharply,  "and  it 's  unneces- 
sary to  imagine  things  about  a  commonplace 
medical  man.  Now  you  are  laid  up  I  shall  bring 
my  work  here,  and  get  on  with  The  Book  of  the 
Elf.  I  hereby  appoint  you  Listener-in-Chief." 

"The  cheapest,  easiest  obtained  appointment 
in  the  world.  I  'm  not  nattered." 

"Oh,  of  course  I  don't  mean  this  afternoon. 
You  've  got  to  sleep  this  afternoon — doctor's 
orders — but  for  such  times  as  you  may — quite 
erroneously — fancy  you  are  fit  to  be  up,  and  are 
not  to  be  trusted  alone,  I  will  distract  your  at- 
tention by  making  you  give  advice,  etc., — and 
now  off  to  sleep  with  you,  Elfkin!  Tell  me  where 
I  can  find  Ma  Bella  to  bring  her  back  at  tea-time 
to  'rid-up,'  as  the  saying  is." 


A  Matter  of  Consequences        289 

When  he  returned  about  five,  Miss  Elphen- 
stonne  had  just  wakened  from  a  refreshing  sleep, 
and  was  quite  ready  for  her  tea.  Ma  Bella  got 
it,  but  found  less  than  she  had  supposed  likely 
for  her  to  do. 

"Lor',  if  all  men  were  that  handy!"  she  said 
admiringly,  as  soon  as  she  was  alone  with  the 
invalid.  "  There 's  my  brother-in-law  what's 
been  behavin'  like  a  zany  all  day,  gettin'  in  the 
way  as  much  as  possible,  an'  at  times  when  folks 
would  n't  'ave  believed  as  it  were  possible.  That 
put  out  because  of  a  babby  arrivin' ! " 

"Is  everybody  all  right?"  asked  Miss  Elphen- 
stonne  weakly,  interested.  She  had  a  distinct 
weakness  for  babies. 

"Yes,  Miss,  an'  a  fine  little  thing  it  is,  too." 

"I  suppose  its  mother  wouldn't  lend  it  me  to 
play  with  while  I  'm  laid  by  the  heels  in  this 
tiresome  fashion? — but  I  forgot,  I  'd  give  it  a 
cold." 

"Never  you  mind  about  other  folkses  babbies," 
said  Ma  Bella  confidentially.  "You  get  married, 
and  'ave  them  of  your  own.  What  a  pity  it  do 
be  to  be  sure  that  that  nice  Mr.  Talbot  ain't  a 
single  gentleman!" 

Miss  Elphenstonne  laughed,  amused.  "  I  did  n't 
know  you  were  a  match-maker,  Ma  Bella!" 

"I  can  see  when  folks  is  made  for  each  other, 
which  isn't  often,  and  which  they  never  get 
together  nohows!"  declared  the  young  woman 
briskly. 

19 


290  Vagabond  City 

The  artist  lay  silent,  a  puzzled  look  on  her  face. 
Then  the  pretty  young  woman,  having  brought  in 
tea,  departed  for  the  time  being,  and  Mick  poked 
a  brown  face  through  the  flap.  "Shall  I  come  and 
pour  it  out?"  he  enquired.  "Are  you  nicely 
propped  up,  or  shall  I  bring  some  cushions?  What 
are  you  looking  so  thoughtful  about?" 

"Isn't  it  funny?"  she  returned.  "When  I 
feel  awfully  tired  or  achy  or  ill,  I  don't  seem  to 
want  to  be  rich  and  famous  or  to  work  or  struggle 
or  be  bothered  at  all.  I  just  feel  as  if  I  'd  like  a 
nice,  devoted  husband  to  look  after  me.  Is  n't 
it  quaint!"  She  broke  into  a  peal  of  husky 
laughter.  "I  shall  begin  to  think  illness  changes 
one's  character." 

"If  it  makes  you  sensible  that's  no  disad- 
vantage," he  retorted.  "We  won't  bother  about 
fame  or  riches,  you  '11  just  let  me  take  care  of 
you!"  he  caught  her  hand,  pressing  his  cheek 
against  it. 

"Don't  be  silly,  Mick."  She  dragged  it  angrily 
away.  "And  I  said  a  husband.  I  didn't  mean 
another  person's.  I  meant  my  own." 

His  face  went  dark  and  ugly.  "He  wouldn't 
occupy  that  position  long,"  he  said  ominously, 
the  veins  swelling  suddenly  on  his  temples. 

"Now  Mick  .  .  .  and  you  promised  .  .  .  you 
wait  till  I  'm  ill,  and  can't  run  away,  to  take 
advantage.  ..." 

"Oh,  my  dear,  forgive  me,  forget  it!  Look,  the 
tea  is  getting  cold.  You  'd  better  take  it  while 


A  Matter  of  Consequences        291 

you  can.  The  doctor  said  nothing  about  tea, 
and  Ma  Bella  will  have  to  try  her  hands  on  other 
diet,  according  to  orders.  The  list  sounded  rather 
formidable,  but  Muriel  and  Miss  Dalton  will 
know." 

He  proved  himself  matter-of-fact  enough,  and 
the  brief  lapse  was  indeed  as  quickly  forgiven  as 
forgotten. 

When  he  got  back  to  the  cottage,  he  found  that 
the  shoppers  had  returned,  somewhat  exhausted 
after  the  delights  of  the  day,  and  he  told  them  at 
once  of  the  plight  the  artist  was  in,  and  that  he 
had  been  with  her  most  of  the  day. 

"In  her  bedroom?11  inquired  Miss  Dalton,  in 
truly  awful  tones. 

Muriel  rushed  into  the  threatened  breach. 
"Oh,  I  don't  mind,"  she  said  quickly;  "of  course 
I  would  n't  do  that  sort  of  thing,  it  would  be  im- 
proper for  me,  but  it 's  not  improper  for  Mick  and 
Miss  Elphenstonne,  though  I  can't  explain  why." 

"You  are  quite  right,  Muriel,"  said  Mick 
quietly.  "I  shall  do  my  work  there  till  she  is 
better;  she  helps  one  so." 

"I  suppose  she  really  is  clever11  conceded  Muriel. 
"I  'm  sure  she  looks  it!"  This  was  not  a  com- 
pliment, perhaps,  but  certainly  was  not  meant 
in  any  opposite  way. 

"  Cleverness  cannot  excuse.  .  .  everything,"  ob- 
jected Miss  Dalton  stiffly.  "  It  has  always  seemed 
to  me  that  a  woman  should  be  modest,  and  a  lady, 
first,  and  clever  afterwards." 


292  Vagabond  City 

"Miss  Elphenstonne  happens  to  be  all  these — 
and  a  great  deal  more  besides,"  returned  Mick, 
in  dangerous  tones. 

"She  is  just  a  flesh  and  blood  woman,  and  you 
are  a  flesh  and  blood  man,  are  n't  you?  And  all 
flesh  is  as  grass." 

"But  not  necessarily  green  grass!"  he  retorted, 
with  a  gleam  in  his  eye.  That  such  as  Miss 
Dalton  should  criticise  Miss  Elphenstonne! 

Muriel  hurriedly  enquired  what  the  invalid 
had  had  to  eat,  and  announced  her  intention 
of  making  some  broth  and  taking  it  at  once  to 
the  tent. 

She  would  have  preferred  to  go  alone  on  her 
errand  of  mercy,  but  Miss  Dalton  insisted  on 
accompanying  her.  Miss  Elphenstonne  opened 
swollen  and  dismayed  eyes  upon  the  two  visitors. 

"It 's  awfully  good  of  you,"  she  said,  with  an 
effort.  She  hoped  they  would  not  talk  much, 
or  stay  very  long. 

They  were,  however,  genuinely  kind,  and  very 
sorry  for  her  uncomfortable  state.  It  seemed 
awful  to  Muriel  to  be  ill  in  a  tent ;  to  Miss  Dalton 
really  rather  more  than  awful,  "not  quite  nice": 
though  of  course,  the  victim  was  to  be  pitied  just 
the  same;  more,  if  possible.  They  were  both 
shocked  to  see  her  looking  so  wretchedly  ill — and 
plain.  Their  kindness  rather  overwhelmed  the 
woman  who  could  never  have  any  kinship  with 
them,  for  both  wanted  to  stay  and  sit  up  the  night 
with  her. 


A  Matter  of  Consequences        293 

"The  loss  of  a  night's  sleep  means  nothing  to 
me,"  said  Miss  Dalton  eagerly.  "I  am  very 
strong,  thank  goodness,  and  would  only  be  too 
pleased  to  help  in  any  way.  It  must  be  so  dreadful 
for  you ! ' '  She  made  the  girl's  pillows  comfortable 
for  her — if  she  did  look  disapprovingly  at  the 
French  night-dress  and  ribbon-decorated  plaits. 

"Or  I  would  stay,"  broke  in  Muriel.  "You 
look  too  feverish  to  be  left  alone." 

"You  are  far  too  kind  to  me,"  said  Miss  Elphen- 
stonne  gratefully,  very  conscious  of  not  deserving 
much  consideration  from  these  people.  "But 
really,  I  do  not  need  anything  more,  and  Ma  Bella 
comes  first  thing  in  the  morning.  Mick  will 
bring  his  work  here  too — if  you  do  not  mind?" 

"Of  course  I  don't  mind,"  returned  Muriel, 
with  absolute  indifference.  "I  only  hope  he  will 
get  on  well  with  it." 

"He  is  not  really  fond  of  work,  I  think,"  said 
Miss  Dalton,  a  little  acidly. 

"But  his  work  is  fond  of  him,"  said  the  artist 
confidently;  at  which  remark  both  women  stared. 
Miss  Dalton  supposed  the  speaker  a  little  delirious, 
or  at  least  incoherent. 

"Do  you  think  his  book  good?"  asked  Muriel 
quickly.  Something  told  her  that  the  opinion 
of  Miss  Elphenstonne  counted  for  much. 

"Not  good— great!"  cried  the  artist  warmly. 

"I  am  so  relieved,"  said  Muriel,  rising  to  go, 
"for  when  I  married  him  he  seemed  to  have  no 
ambition.  It  was  a  great  grief  to  me.  I  am  not 


294  Vagabond  City 

like  that  myself.  He  just  wanted  to  write  things 
for  pleasure — whether  they  would  be  popular  or 
not,  but  I  am  thankful  to  remember  I  wakened 
his  ambition." 

"Of  course,"  stammered  Miss  Elphenstonne, 
not  looking  at  her. 

The  too  women  returned  to  the  cottage  most 
sincerely  sorry  for  the  artist's  predicament.  "In 
a  tent!11  murmured  Miss  Dalton.  "I  wonder 
what  dear  William  would  say  to  that !  He  seemed 
to  think  so  much  of  her — or  to  pretend  to.  Fancy 
poor  Jane's  feelings  if  she  knew  he  tried  to  flirt 
when  he  was  away." 

"  Oh,  not  that — he  was  just  kind  and  encouraging 
to  her,  and  he  'd  met  her  before,"  said  Muriel 
very  hastily,  "and,  of  course,  there's  nobody  to 
tell  Aunt  Jane,  fortunately." 

"N-o-o,"  said  the  spinster  reluctantly.  <:I 
suppose  there  isn't." 

"I  couldn't  have  believed  anybody  could  look 
so  hideous  and  so  old,"  said  Muriel,  at  length. 
"Poor  thing!" 

"She's  a  pagan,  perhaps  worse,"  said  Miss 
Dalton  darkly.  "Her  eyes  .  .  .  even  when  she 's 
ill,  there  's  a  look  .  .  .  and  then  her  night-dress! 
Very  French,  I  thought  it,  and  such  extravagance! 
I  suppose  she  put  it  on  for  the  doctor — and  he  'd 
think  all  the  worse  of  her  for  it  and  ask  if  she 
hadn't  any  Jaeger!  If  there's  one  thing  Dr. 
Byrne  admires  in  a  woman  it 's  sense — one  sees 
that  at  once.  I  must  say,  that,  though  it 's  very 


A  Matter  of  Consequences        295 

improper  for  Mick  to  be  running  in  and  out  as 
if  he  owned  the  place,  it 's  not  dangerous;  and  you 
certainly  have  no  cause  to  be  jealous,  with  your 
looks.  She  was  like  a  frog." 

"Oh,  I  should  never  be  that,"  said  Muriel 
serenely.  "  Mick  may  be  cold,  but  I  was  the  love 
of  his  youth  and  manhood,  the  one  woman  in  his 
life.  But  did  you  notice  her  hair?  Of  course  it  is 
splendid,  even  if  the  greyness  spoils  it,  and  when 
she  has  n't  a  cold,  some  people  might  think  her 
eyes  attractive,  though  to  me  they  are  far  too  odd." 

"They  are  wicked  eyes,"  said  Miss  Dalton  de- 
cidedly; "and  I  always  think  there's  something 
about  their  expression,  something  .  .  .  not  quite 
nice." 


CHAPTER   XVI 

INACTION 

IT  would  not  be  true  to  say  Miss  Elphenstonne 
made  either  an  obedient  or  resigned  patient. 
She  did  neither,  and  was  both  trying  and  cross. 

On  the  following  day  she  felt  so  little  better  that 
she  did  not  worry  about  being  kept  in  bed,  but, 
on  the  day  succeeding  that,  she  felt — as  she  ex- 
pressed it — so  much  less  "wormish"  that  she 
wanted  to  be  up  and  doing. 

She  dare  not,  however,  attempt  anything  of  the 
sort.  She  felt  like  a  very  small  and  helpless 
person  between  two  ruthless  tyrants.  Both  were 
capable  of  keeping  her  in  bed  by  force,  and  strategy 
was  all  that  was  left  to  her. 

"Mick,"  she  began  coaxingly,  after  a  brief 
preliminary  skirmish,  "do,  like  a  dear,  persuade 
Dr.  Byrne  to  let  me  get  up  to-day." 

"I  'm  not  going  to  teach  the  man  his  business." 

"I  'dfeel  stronger  up,  I  'm  sure  of  it." 

"I'm  not." 

"Well,  I  shall  get  up  and  see,  anyway!"  she 
retorted,  with  an  angry  glare.  "Go  away  at 
once — I  'm  going  to  dress." 

296 


Inaction  297 

But  Mick  sat  stolidly  on. 

"Did  you  hear,   Mick?" 

He  merely  looked  obstinate. 

"Do  you  expect  me  to  dress  with  you  here?" 

"I  do  not."  He  plunged  his  hands  deep  in  his 
pockets,  and  made  no  attempt  to  move. 

"I  ask  you  to  go — stupid!" 

"You  're  not  getting  up  till  Dr.  Byrne  gives  you 
leave — if  I  have  to  sit  here  all  day,  or  run  off  with 
your  clothes.  Now,  do  you  understand?  You  're 
just  up  against  it,  and  have  got  two  determined 
men  to  put  an  end  to  your  folly,  and  the  sooner 
you  give  in  gracefully,  the  better  for  all  concerned 
— especially  yourself." 

"I  never  guessed  you  could  be  so  horrid,"  she 
said  reproachfully,  "and — oh,  here  's  Dr.  Byrne!" 
She  beamed  upon  the  newcomer,  and  Mick,  rather 
grudgingly,  left  them  alone  together. 

"You  are  going  to  let  me  get  up,  of  course," 
she  said  briskly.  "Just  a  few  garments  and  my 
dressing-gown,  and  to  sit  in  a  chair  in  the  studio?" 

"Not  to-day,  I  think,"  he  returned  pleasantly. 

"I  must  get  up — I  will  not  waste  any  more  time 
in  this  ridiculous  fashion!"  exclaimed  the  girl 
angrily,  sitting  up  in  bed,  her  face  brightly  flushed. 
The  exertion,  which  made  her  feel  rather  wanting 
in  backbone,  brought  on  a  violent  fit  of  coughing. 

Dr.  Byrne's  keen,  kind  eyes  smiled  down  at 
her;  then,  without  ceremony,  he  thrust  her  gently 
back  on  her  pillows,  and  drew  the  clothes  up  to 
her  chin.  "Now,  are  you  going  to  compel  me 


298  Vagabond  City 

to  steal  your  clothes?"  He  laughed,  but  his 
eyes  took  in  the  disposal  of  her  raiment. 

Miss  Elphenstonne  unwillingly  joined  in  the 
laugh.  "You  promise  to  let  me  get  up  as  soon 
as  possible?" 

"The  first  day  it  is  safe — I  promise."  And, 
sitting  down  by  her  side,  he  chatted  for  some 
time  on  the  art  which  was  so  much  to  both  of 
them.  He  came  each  day,  and  each  day  he  seemed 
to  stay  a  little  longer — or  so  Mick's  jealousy 
fancied.  "He's  time  to  burn — that  man!"  he 
remarked  rather  savagely,  on  one  occasion. 

"An  extra  few  minutes  talking " 

"Looking  at  you,  you  mean!"  Mick  growled 
resentfully. 

"And  isn't  it  a  doctor's  duty  to  look  at  his 
patient?"  demanded  Miss  Elphenstonne. 

"He  doesn't  do  it  as  a  duty " 

"Oh,  you  mean  as  a  pleasure!  How  nice  of 
you,  Mick!  Certainly  I  'm  not  blotchy  and 
horrid  any  longer." 

1 '  You  are  incorrigible ! " 

"I  must  have  some  relaxation " 

"I  should  not  regard  Byrne  as  a  relaxation 
myself " 

"I  regard  him  as  a  perfect  dear,"  she  broke 
in  quickly,  "  and  he  ought  to  have  a  charming 
wife  and  half  a  dozen  darling  kiddies." 

Mick's  face  went  black.  "Why  not  supply 
the  deficiency?"  he  said  fiercely. 

"Oh,  Mick,  all   at  once  .  .  !"     She  laughed 


Inaction  299 

audaciously  into  his  glowering  face.  "Half  a 
dozen.  ..." 

"  I  naturally  only  alluded  to  the  wife-deficiency," 
he  exclaimed  stiffly. 

"Oh,  I  see!  Mick,  do  you  know  what  I  would 
love  to  have  if  I  were  married?"  Her  eyes  were 
twinkling  wickedly. 

1 '  A  motor-car  ?  A  diamond  necklace  ?  What  ? ' ' 
The  ten  thousand  pounds  was  safely  settled  on 
Muriel,  but  there  was  an  odd  thousand  over,  and 
he  could  make  more.  It  was  extraordinary  how 
easily  one  made  money  when  one  cared  so  little 
about  it !  The  irony  of  things,  he  supposed.  The 
Elf  should  have  her  motor-car  or  her  diamond 
necklace.  He  would  make  her  keep  them  in 
spite  of  any  objections  she  might  offer. 

"You  could  have  those  without  being  married, 
silly,"  she  returned.  "I  meant — twins." 

"  Twins!"  he  echoed,  and,  oddly  enough,  he  was 
shocked.  "Really,  Elf!  What  next,  I  wonder!" 

"Oh,  nothing  next;  just  twins,"  she  answered 
drowsily.  "A  boy  with  a  bullet  head  and  dark 
hair,  and  a  girl  rather  goldeny,  inclining  to  curl, 
and  with  a  dimple — a  good  start  towards  the  half 
dozen,  *t  anyrate." 

Mick  only  glared  the  more.  The  idea  of  Miss 
Elphenstonne  married  to  Dr.  Byrne  was  bad 
enough;  to  picture  her  the  mother  of  twins  in- 
finitely worse.  He  felt  sick— and  savagely  sick. 
"I  'd  come  and  drown  the  lot  of  them"  he  said 
absurdly. 


3oo  Vagabond  City 

Miss  Elphenstonne  laughed  at  his  rage. 

"Marry  the  fool  then!"  he  choked. 

"Hadn't  I  better  wait  till  he  asks  me?" 

"Who  ever  kept  you  waiting  for  that?"  he 
demanded  harshly. 

Miss  Elphenstonne,  sniggering  inelegantly  under 
the  bedclothes,  made  no  reply.  She  was  quite 
aware  that  it  was  both  unkind  and  dangerous  to 
tease  Mick,  but  at  times  the  temptation  proved 
irresistible. 

"As  for — for.  .  .  ."  He  broke  off ,  stammering. 
"I — I  did  not  know  you  could  be  positively 
indecent,  EH!" 

"  Do  you  consider  twins  indecent?" 

"Certainly!    And— here 's  Byrne." 

He  did  not  rise  from  the  chair  by  the  bed.  If 
the  doctor  had  come  to  propose,  he  would  not 
find  it  easy.  He  would  be  obliged  to  give  up  the 
idea,  or  do  it  before  a  third  person.  Mick  was 
aflame  with  unreasoning  jealousy. 

Miss  Elphenstonne,  reading  his  intention,  was 
intensely  amused.  The  imp  of  mischief  dominated 
her,  and  her  small,  elfin  face  was  vividly  alluring. 
"I  shall  ask  the  brown  doctor,"  she  said.  "He 
will  know.  Doctors  always  know  things.  Dr. 
Byrne  (as  that  person  entered),  Mick  says  twins 
are  indecent,  though  he  can't  say  why.  /  say 
they  are  adorable.  Which  is  right?" 

"They  are  very  troublesome,"  said  Dr.  Byrne 
prosaically.  "I  should  not  like  to  have  the  care 
of  them  myself " 


Inaction  301 

Miss  Elphenstonne  caught  a  look  of  triumph 
directed  at  her  from  Mick,  and  had  hard  work  to 
suppress  her  laughter. 

"One  of  the  charcoal-burners  was  thus  enriched 
early  this  morning,  and  there  were  only  clothes 
and  provision — and  that  of  the  barest — for  one; 
nobody  to  look  after  them  and  nobody  pleased." 

"I  '11  sew  them  some  clothes,"  said  the  artist 
eagerly.  "I  should  love  to.  I  'm  sure  it  should 
be  easy — they  're  so  small!  Are  they  a  boy  and 
a  girl  and  do  either  of  them  dimple?" 

"They  do  not,"  said  Dr.  Byrne  laughing. 
"Frankly,  they  are  miserable,  sickly  little  mites 
and  hideous  to  the  point  of  repulsion." 

"Would  it  have  been  any  more  trouble  to  have 
had  pretty  ones?"  she  enquired,  with  a  great  air 
of  gravity. 

The  doctor  laughed  indulgently,  looking  down 
at  his  odd  patient  with  intent  gaze.  What  a 
quaint  little  body  she  was! 

"I  suppose  you  think  a  lot,"  said  the  girl, 
"since  you  say  so  little.  Doctors  are  so  dread- 
fully intelligent  and  so  discreet!  Are  you  busy 
this  morning?" 

"Not  specially.  I  suffer  from  underwork, 
rather  than  from  overwork." 

"We  must  not  keep  you  from  your  patients  all 
the  same,"  said  Mick  icily. 

Dr.  Byrne  raised  his  bushy  brows.  "Ah!  .  . 
they  can  wait.  In  the  meanwhile,  will  you  kindly 
allow  me  to  examine  this  special  patient?" 


3O2  Vagabond  City 

"One  to  the  doctor!"  thought  the  girl,  amused. 

Mick  flung  himself  out,  doubtless  regretting  the 
loss  of  a  door  to  slam. 

"Well,  you  are  rather  slow,  my  dear  lady,  quite 
distinctly  slow,"  said  the  doctor,  after  he  had 
finished  his  examination;  "but  slow  and  sure  goes 
all  the  way,  they  say."  Yet  he  knew  that  Miss 
Elphenstonne  was  far  from  sure;  and  would 
certainly  not  go  all  the  way. 

"Do  you  mean  I  can't  get  up  to-day?" 

"You  won't  be  running  about  in  wet  clothes 
for  another  day  or  so  yet." 

Miss  Elphenstonne  blushed.  "I'm  never 
going  to  be  silly  again,"  she  said  optimistically. 
"It  was  lovely  while  it  lasted,  but  the  payment 
was  too  heavy."  Her  face  shadowed  suddenly. 
"It  always  is,  I  think." 

He  stared  at  the  small  brown  hands  aflash  with 
their  bizarre  rings,  and  his  own  fece  grew  troubled, 
for  he  was  afraid  for  this  patient  of  his,  and  she 
seemed  more  worth  saving  than  many. 

He  dropped  his  capable  hand  over  hers.  "Don't 
buy,"  he  said,  in  an  earnest  face;  "then  you  need 
never  fear  to  face  the  bill." 

"Advice  is  such  an  excellent  thing— to  ignore!" 
she  retorted.  "And,  you  see,  we  only  learn 
wisdom  after  the  event,  my  friend." 

"Perhaps  because  we  enact  the  part  of  the  Shut 
Eye  Sentry,"  he  answered,  removing  his  hand. 

"I  suppose  it  would  be  all  right  to  get  up  for 
just  an  hour?"  she  shot  at  him  suddenly. 


Inaction  303 

"We'll  see — to-morrow." 

"With  you  it 's  always  jam  yesterday  and  to- 
morrow but  never  to-day!"  she  cried  indignantly. 

"But  it 's  going  to  be  jam  on  Friday  if  you  're 
good,"  he  returned,  with  his  full  deep  laugh. 
"The  truth  of  the  matter  is,  my  jurisdiction  is 
drawing  to  a  close,  and  I  cannot  pretend  to  be  a 
necessary  evil  much  longer." 

"You  '11  come  sometimes  as  a  friend,  if  not  as 
a  necessary  evil?"  she  begged. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  simply. 

"Mick  and  you  have  helped  to  make  the  time 
pass,  but,  of  course,  one  hankers  for  one's  work." 

"Yet  I  wish  you  'd  remember  that  the  spared 
horse  goes  farthest." 

"You  spell  it  spurred,  of  course?"  she  retorted. 

"Not  where  you  are  concerned,  though  there  's 
a  certain  lady  patient  of  mine  who  I  wish  would 
spell  it  that  way.  She  sent  for  me  to  stop  her 
getting  so  fat,  and  being  troubled  by  a  liver,  but 
lies  on  the  sofa  half  the  day  and  eats  the  rest  of 
the  time.  As  yet  there  is  no  improvement — she 
ignores  most  of  my  orders — and  she  does  n't  think 
much  of  me  as  a  doctor!  She  is,  in  fact,  about 
to  change  me.  Now  I  should  like  to  roll  the  two 
of  you  together  and  turn  out  a  medium  person. 
You  drive  the  steed  far  too  fast 

"I  don't  mind  dropping  in  the  traces  as  long 
as  the  journey  is  done,"   she  said  quietly, 
does  n't  matter — when  the  work  is  finished." 

"Pardon  me,  but  it  matters  a  great  deal.     It 


304  Vagabond  City 

gives  a  lot  of  unnecessary  trouble  all  round.  Be- 
sides, no  one's  work  ever  is  done,  in  this  world, 
perhaps  not  even  in  the  next — "  He  broke  off 
with  a  little  shrug. 

"What  do  you  really  believe  in?"  she  asked 
curiously. 

"Little — but  hope  for  everything." 

Miss  Elphenstonne  rumpled  her  hair.  "  If  there 
were  n't  so  many  roads,  so  many  Gods — "  she 
cried  fretfully.  "There's  the  God  of  many, 
extremely  British,  and  secretly  anti-socialistic,  a 
Being  of  vast  tact,  who  will  certainly  not  place 
madam  and  her  butler  together  in  the  same  man- 
sion of  the  blessed,  unless  in  their  only  possible 
relationship:  a  Being  who  will  only  re-unite  the 
much  married  spouse  to  the  favourite  partner, 
and,  while  dealing  punishment  to  our  neighbours, 
will  look  lightly  upon  our  little  human  weakness." 

She  looked  up  with  her  vivid  smile.  "He  will 
have  a  very  trying  position,"  she  added. 

Dr.  Byrne  shook  his  head  at  her  even  while 
he  laughed.  "I  should  like,  at  least,  to  think 
there  might  be  a  Hereafter  where  one  was  paid 
according  to  one's  efforts;  not  just  enough  for 
to-day,  with  never  enough  for  to-morrow,  you 
know,"  he  said,  slowly. 

He  wanted  Miss  Elphenstonne  to  know  he  was 
extremely,  hopelessly  poor;  a  man  without  a 
future,  without  a  prospect. 

Miss  Elphenstonne' s  eyes  grew  sad  and  thought- 
ful. "Never  enough  for  to-morrow!"  she  re- 


Inaction  305 

peated.  "What  a  large  luckless  army — and  how 
horribly  true  in  the  art  world  as  well!" 

"If  .  .  .  the  others  could  sometimes  guess  what 
it  meant,"  he  sighed;  "not  think  it  was  want  of 
push,  of  brains,  or  the  will  to  work.  But  of 
course  they  can't.  It 's  not  to  be  expected.  One 
has  to  live  like  that  to  know." 

"But  you  are  clever,"  said  the  artist  quickly. 
"The  practice  is  poor  and  scattered  and  barren 
of  honour  or  profit.  Why  do  you  stay?" 

"It 's  a  living  for  my  sister  and  myself  in  a 
bare  way — and  she 's  an  invalid.  I  have  no 
capital  to  buy  a  better  practice.  I  never  had  any 
capital,  and — I  am  too  old." 

She  was  startled  at  that  moment  by  his  look 
of  age.  Yes,  he  was  too  old.  But  the  tragedy 
was  none  the  less  a  tragedy,  in  spite  of  the  bright 
face  he  bore  for  the  world  at  large.  It  was  a 
tragedy  too  commonplace  to  be  picturesque; 
and  her  heart  was  very  sore  for  this  kind  good  man 
to  whom  opportunity  had  never  come.  Then  he 
saw  the  shadow  on  her  face  and  dispersed  it  with 
rather  a  naughty  little  story,  which  he  kept  for 
his  favourite  patients,  and  Miss  Elphenstonne 
enjoyed  it  hugely  and  wondered  if  she  dare  tell 
Mick. 

Mick,  thinking  it  was  time  the  doctor  departed, 
was  even  then  returning  to  the  tent,  and  hurrying 
along  absorbedly  had  run — and  literally— into 
rather  an  indignant  Mrs.  Hobbs. 

"No   heye   for   decent   folk!"    exclaimed   the 

20 


306  Vagabond  City 

assaulted  indignantly,  rubbing  her  arm.  ' '  Workin' 
too  'ard — ho  yus!" 

He  apologised  abjectly,  and  after  accepting 
his  explanation  more  graciously  than  he  had  dared 
hope,  she  eyed  him  up  and  down  with  ironic 
suspicion. 

''Off  to  that  there  Miss  Elfster  of  course'1  she 
remarked.  ''You  always  'urry  then,  I  notices, 
which  men  don't,  not  to  their  lawful  married 
lidies.  I  'ope  she  's  goin*  on  well,  I  'm  sure,  it 
would  be  croil  awkward  if  anythink  were  to  'appen 
to  'er,  there  bein'  no  other  lidy  livin'  andy  about, 
not  related  to  a  lord,  nor  a  hartist  from  Paris,  we 
all  knowin'  what  that  means.  Not  arf!" 

The  goaded  Mick  carried  the  war  into  the 
enemy's  country.  "By  the  bye,  where 's  that 
last  bottle  of  whisky  you — mislaid?"  he  enquired, 
wondering  at  his  own  temerity.  Anything  to 
keep  her  off  the  subject  of  the  Elf! 

"Me  job  an*  for  which  I  engaged  is  cookin', 
not  whisky  findin',  which  is  your  lot,  and  one 
you're  true  to  your  tride  at,  Mr.  Talbot!  I 
wonders  at  you  'avin'  the  fice  to  make  the  delusion, 
I  do  indeed!  Why  can't  they  tax  journalists? 
Such  a  lot  of  talk  about  this  silly  old  budget  an' 
things  what  ought  to  be  taxed  gettin'  off,  it 's  a 
disgrace,  that 's  what  it  is.  Honest  'ard  workin' 
M.P.'s!  Ho  yus!" 

"Then  what  would  you  tax?" 

"Bachelors  and  widowers,"  she  retorted 
promptly.  "Why  should  men  'ave  all  the  comfort, 


Inaction  307 

I  'd  like  to  know;  and  wimmin  what  do  'alf  the 
work  none?" 

"By  all  means,"  murmured  Mick,  trying  to 
pass. 

"And  I 'd  tax  gentlemen  livin*  promiscuous!" 
she  shot  at  him,  her  respectable  eye  very  grim. 

"Do  you  mean  harems?"  he  enquired  inno- 
cently. 

"I'm  surprised  you'd  mention  such  things 
afore  a  decent  woman —  Ho  yus,  I  'd  tax  harems 
all  right,  though  it  might  be  a  shock  to  some  as  I 
could  nime,  an  I  'd  tax  clergy  too,  all  of  'em,  even 
when  Methody,  which  is  powerful  rousin',  for 
preachin'  over  ten  minutes.  I  'd  tax  twins  an' 
prohibit  triplets,  which  is  a  disgrice  to  a  Christian 
country,  tax  em'  three  pound  instead  of  givin' 
it  has  an  encouragement,  an'  triplets  would  go 
out — you  mark  my  word !  An'  there  's  too  many 
wimmin  an  gal  babies,  so  I  'd  tax  em  too,  and 
they  'd  go  out,  and  spinsters  like  your  aunt  which 
has  enough  for  an  'usband  in  an  'umble  wiy,  but 
don't  keep  one,  an  lemonide  an'  sick  drinks  as 
against  natur  an'  never  mentioned  in  the  Bible 
which  shows — "  She  paused  for  breath. 

"What  a  revenue  you'd  have!"  he  said  ad- 
miringly. 

"An'  fat  men  and  fat  wimmin,"  she  continued 
mercilessly,  "because  they  tike  up  more 'n  their 
fair  share  of  room  an'  squash  you  in  'buses  som- 
think  croil  though  only  piyin'  for  one  seat,  though, 
not  real  gents  or  great  mayors — an'  yellow  'air 


308  Vagabond  City 

which  is  a  luxury  at  any  time,  specially  when  the 
Almighty  meant  it  for  dark  an'  not  for  snares." 
Her  mouth  tightened.  "An*  I  'd  tax  dark  'air 
too  when  there  was  too  much  of  it  an'  done  in 
two  great  fancy  plaits  with  pink  ribbon.  .  .  ." 

Mick  wondered  how  she  knew.  "Nothing 
would  escape  it  seems?"  he  remarked,  aloud. 

"French  night-dresses  would  n't!"  she  returned, 
with  a  snort. 

His  mouth  twitched,  but  he  did  not  laugh  aloud. 
How  amused  the  Elf  would  be!  He  was  always 
collecting  every  amusing  incident  to  tell  her,  and 
finding  it  doubly  humorous  when  shared  with  her. 
"Some  of  these  rich  business  men — wouldn't 
you  bleed  them?"  he  enquired. 

"I  would  not"  said  Mrs.  Hobbs  emphatically. 
"They  'as  brains.  Business  folks  is  them  as  sells 
somethink  they  'aven't  got,  to  them  as  don't 
want  it;  and  'ave  to  be  respected." 

"I  see,"  he  said,  and  this  time  he  managed  to 
slip  past  her. 

He  met  Dr.  Byrne  coming  out  of  the  tent,  and 
nodded  to  him  curtly.  Then  he  asked  Miss 
Elphenstonne's  permission  to  enter,  and  retailed 
Mrs.  Hobbs's  conversation  to  her.  ' '  She  must  have 
peeped  at  you  somehow,"  he  added. 

"I'm  to  get  up  on  Friday,"  she  announced 
joyfully.  "We  '11  have  a  tea-party  in  the  studio, 
and  the  best  cakes  that  Southampton  can  produce. 
You  and  Dr.  Byrne.  Who  else  shall  we  ask?" 

"That 's  already  one  too  many,"  he  grumbled. 


Inaction  309 

"Then  you  need  n't  come  if  you  'd  rather  not," 
she  said  innocently.  And  he  had  to  make  the 
best  of  the  unwanted  third. 

On  Friday,  as  soon  as  he  had  finished  his 
lunch,  he  sought  his  hostess.  "Please,  I  've 
come  to  tea,"  he  said,  and  exhibited  a  large 
paper-bag. 

"At  two  o'clock!"  returned  Miss  Elphenstonne, 
raising  her  brows.  "If  you  come  at  two  when 
asked  for  four-thirty  tea,  what  time  do  you  turn 
up  for  lunch,  or  breakfast?" 

"I  give  it  up,"  he  answered  instantly. 
"Wouldn't  you  like  to  look  inside  the  bag? 
I  've  been  in  every  cake  shop  in  Southampton  and 
picked  their  choicest.  Ingratitude,  thy  name  is 
woman!" 

"They  are  scrummy,"  said  the  artist,  "and, 
after  all,  I  only  had  a  small  lunch."  She  ate  a 
small  cake  as  she  spoke.  "Did  you  bring  the 
Book  of  the  Elf  to  read  to  me?  I  am  glad  it 's 
nearly  finished,  but  there's  still  the  finishing 
touches  to  be  put  to  The  Shadow,  and  we  agreed 
to  finish  on  the  same  day,  didn't  we?" 

"I  will  read  it  presently,  and  of  course  I  won't 
finish  before  you,  but  I  want  to  talk  to  you  now." 

"Oh,  please  read  to  me  first,"  she  begged,  and, 
rather  unwillingly,  he  got  out  his  bulky  manu- 
script. 

They  discussed  the  book  for  some  time,  then 
wandered  off  to  other  subjects,  grave  and  gay 
and  often  inconsequent. 


3io  Vagabond  City 

"Are  you  sorry  your  time  of  captivity  has  come 
to  an  end?"  he  asked,  a  little  later.  "Be  a  little 
sorry,  Elf,  for  I  have  enjoyed  looking  after  you, 
and  having  you  at  my  mercy!" 

"I  can  only  be  glad,  though,  somehow,  this 
afternoon,  I  'm  rather  in  the  blues." 

"You  with  the  hump — but  why  ?  " 

"I  have  no  reason,  that 's  the  worst  of  it.  I 
just  feel  as  if  nothing  was  worth  while  in  all  the 
world.  Is  there  anything,  Mick?  Oh,  dear,  how 
silly  I  am!  It  must  be  sheerly  physical!" 

His  fingers  closed  over  hers  with  a  pressure  that 
hurt.  "There's  love,"  he  said  roughly,  "love 
that  makes  men  as  gods." 

"And  when  the  brief  glory  has  passed,  makes 
them  but  as  men  again — sometimes  less  than 
men." 

"Don't  say  such  things — love  lifts  us  to  the 
stars." 

"Then  flings  us  down  to  the  earth  again,"  she 
retorted.  "Let  go  my  hand,  please! — and  the 
ground  is  rather  hard,  and  sometimes  muddy, 
too!" 

"What  if  we  can't  dwell  always  on  the  heights? 
There  are  the  pleasant  valleys,  and  'love  is  of  the 
valley' " 

"I  know  nothing  of  love."  She  spoke  with  a 
sudden  fierceness  that  startled  him.  "And  care 
less!  All  that  matters  is  progress,  success,  the 
winning  of  the  goal!  I  've  put  my  hand  to  the 
plough,  and  I  've  no  wish  to  look  back — only  give 


Inaction  311 

me  time,  O  God!"  Her  eyes  were  terrified, 
piteous. 

"You're  unnerved — don't  look  like  that!" 
His  voice  shook.  "We  will  talk  of  other  matters. 
Oh,  Elf,  don't  take  things  so  hard." 

"That  comes  well  from  you,"  she  retorted, 
"you  who  are  breaking  your  heart  for  freedom. 
That  is  your  master,  and  I  have  chosen  mine. 
One  cannot  serve  two." 

"  Cruel,  merciless  masters  both  of  them.  Let 's 
at  least  take  love  with  us  on  the  long  highway." 

"I  shall  have  enough  to  carry,  thank  you." 

"You  are  like  a  blind  child  renouncing  the 
beauty  of  the  world  it  has  never  seen 

"Oh,  well.  ..."  Her  tones  grew  light  and 
careless.  "Of  course  I  don't  renounce  love  in  the 
usual  common  or  garden  sense.  Why  should  I? 
It  does  not  matter  enough  to  interfere.  It 's 
an  incident  in  the  background.  After  my  picture 
is  done,  I  may  even  marry  and  try  not  to  make  it 
a  mere  episode,  but  of  course.  ..." 

"Elf!    I  hate  you  when  you  talk  like  this!" 

"It  may  be  safer,  wiser,"  she  ended  thought- 
fully, "to  marry  some  utterly  ordinary,  rather 
comfortably  dull  person,  who  will  not  want  to 
interfere,  or  take  up  too  much  room  in  the  fore- 
ground. I  only  meant  that  in  the  big,  disturbing 
sense,  I  should  forswear  love.  Now,  there  's  a 
girl  I  know  who  has  the  most  enviable  tempera- 
ment in  the  world.  She  's  always  pleasantly  and 
romantically  in  love,  if  you  know  what  I  mean? 


312  Vagabond  City 

It 's  like  the  froth  on  a  glass  of  stout,  to  descend 
to  banalities,  looks  a  lot,  but  can  be  flicked  off 
to  leave  the  real  draught  of  life  undisturbed, 
unlessened.  Sometimes  the  'peg'  on  which  she 
hangs  her  affections  pro  tern,  is  a  would-be  lover, 
sometimes  a  mere  friend,  oftener  a  celebrity, 
soldier,  statesman,  author — which,  it  never  mat- 
ters. She  revels  in  an '  uncomfortable  attachment ' 
more  than  in  any  other,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that 
she  will  make  a  satisfactory  wife  eventually,  and 
that  her  husband  will  be  quite  content.  Yet  I 
believe  I  shan't  marry  after  all,  lest  it  might 
interfere." 

"You  will  at  least  marry  no  one  but  me,"  he 
saicl  tensely. 

"Oh,  Mick,  you  always  speak  as  if  you  were 
not  married!" 

"It 's  not  the  thing  irrevocable." 

"I  have  always  considered  it  so;  and  you  are 
not  remembering  our  compact  very  well." 

"And  Miss  Dalton  thinks  you — lacking  in  the 
highest  moral  sense!"  he  cried  mockingly.  "She 
little  knows!  You  may  become  such  another  in 
time!" 

She  turned  away  from  his  passionate  eyes, 
biting  her  lips.  She  did  not  want  to  quarrel. 

"One  of  those  who  prefer  the  stony  path  of 
righteousness,"  he  said,  with  a  sneer,  "walk 
therein  from  choice,  make  no  excursions  of  curi- 
osity, of  dalliance-,  or  rest  for  a  little  while— and 
oh,  how  proud  they  are  of  their  pathway!" 


Inaction  313' 

Then  he  saw  her  face,  and  swift  repentance 
seized  him.  "I  am  an  utter  beast,  a  brute!"  he 
cried,  "and  no  one  can  despise  me  more  than  I 
despise  myself:  behind  there  's  ever  the  goad  of 
misery  that  drives  me  on  to  madness  and  Heaven 
knows  what.  I  don't — or  seem  to,  care!  Oh, 
Elf,  for  the  free  vagrant  years  again,  and  you, 
and  you!" 

"Here  's  Dr.  Byrne,"  cried  Miss  Elphenstonne, 
jumping  up  in  a  hurry  to  welcome  her  visitor. 
"  I  Ve  got  heaps  and  heaps  of  cakes  and  I  Ve  been 
obeying  orders,  really  I  have.  But  you  are  a 
suspicious  man — you  would  n't  have  been  in  the 
least  surprised  to  have  caught  me  climbing  trees." 

He  smiled,  but  he  did  not  contradict  her. 

"Then  you'd  have  to  throw  medicine  up  to 
me,"  she  laughed,  "and  if  I  missed,  it  would  be 
entirely  your  fault  for  not  curing  me!" 

"That's  quite  the  idea,"  he  said.  "It's  all 
my  bad  throwing,  never  their  bad  missing,  that 
my  patients  blame  me  for." 


CHAPTER  XVII 
HOW  "FAT-LEGS"  FOUND  HIMSELF  IN  CLOVER 

A  SMALL  chubby  child  was  lying  screaming 
lustily  in  a  clover-field.  That  morning— 
the  spirit  of  unrest  seizing  upon  him — he  had  set 
out  in  quest  of  the  Great  Adventure.  He  had — 
he  would  have  told  you — walked  through  many 
wild  forests,  encountered  many  and  strange 
beasts,  and  finally  wandered  with  aching  legs 
into  the  clover-field,  because  it  looked  like  one 
close  to  his  home.  He  expected  to  find  awaiting 
his  lordly  pleasure,  his  cottage,  his  dinner,  and  his 
mother.  They  would  be  just  over  the  rise  yonder, 
he  felt  sure. 

But  behold  none  of  these  things  met  his  view, 
and  a  very  angry  and  aggrieved  son  of  Adam  lay 
down  and  cursed,  in  infantile  fashion,  the  fate 
that  had  wronged  him  so  cruelly! 

And  it  was  thus  that  Miss  Elphenstonne,  now, 
according  to  herself,  as  strong  and  well  as  ever, 
found  him. 

"Where  is  your  mother,  baby?"  she  enquired, 
looking  round. 

The  child  howled  the  louder.     Perhaps  thinking 


"Fat-Legs"  in  Clover  315 

of  his  missing  mother— perhaps  of  his  missing 
dinner.  One  can  surmise  as  one  pleases,  only 
remember  he  was  a  boy-child  and  the  ache  was 
not  entirely  confined  to  his  legs! 

"Has  a  bee  stung  you,  I  wonder?"  The  girl 
dropped  on  her  knees  by  the  child  and  strove  to 
gather  him  into  her  rather  inadequate  arms. 

He  kicked  wildly,  indignantly:  showed  tierce 
eyes  of  affront. 

"Oh,  what  a  darling  baby!"  cried  the  foolish 
stranger.  "What  dimples!  What 's  the  matter, 
my  precious?  Who  has  dared  to  leave  you  all 
alone?  The  callous  wretch!" 

"'Ome!"  yelled  the  wanderer,  "'Ome!  dinny! 
mummy!" 

"Oh,  now  I  understand,  Ulysses,"  exclaimed 
the  artist.  ' '  You  are  lost,  and  you  put  your  dinner 
first!  There,  come  along,  Fat-Legs,  and  I  '11  take 
you  home.  You  dimpled  darling  of  a  duck!" 
Flushing  and  panting  with  the  effort,  she  raised  the 
heavy  child  in  her  arms  and  made  a  staggering 
step  forward.  The  spirit  was  willing,  but  the 
flesh  was  weak! 

"Which  way  did  you  come?"  she  gasped  out. 

The  child  checked  his  tears  to  point  promptly 
to  the  North. 

"Oh,  dear,"  said  poor  Miss  Elphenstonne,  who 
found  her  burden  literally  more  than  she  could 
bear.  "All  that  way!"  For  the  nearest  cottage 
was  two  miles  off.  Could  such  a  baby  have  walked 
all  that  distance  alone  ?  ' '  Suppose  I  put  you  down 


3i6  Vagabond  City 

for  a  moment  and  you  show  me  the  way,  brave 
Ulysses?"  she  coaxed. 

But  the  youthful  wanderer  screamed  at  the 
idea,  screamed  hideously,  clinging  suffocatingly 
round  her  neck.  "  'Egs  sore ! "  he  wept .  ' '  Tummy 
sore — 'dinny!"  Also,  he  had  been  christened 
"Tom,"  and  did  not  like  being  called  "names" 
by  the  stranger. 

"He  knows  his  own  mind,  at  any  rate,"  thought 
the  girl,  "and  his  disease,  and  only  possible 
cure." 

"Show  lady  which  is  home?"  she  coaxed 
again. 

The  small  chubby  hand  pointed  firmly  to  the 
west. 

There  were  no  cottages  at  all  that  way  for  miles. 
Eastwards  there  was,  however,  a  tiny  cottage  a 
mile  away.  That  must  surely  be  his  home! 

"Fat-Legs  show  lady,"  she  said  again. 

"Fat-legs"  was  very  angry  at  the  stupidity  of  the 
woman,  but  he  showed  her  readily  enough — due 
south! 

"I  give  it  up,"  thought  the  girl.  "I  shall  go 
to  the  near  cottage  and  see  at  any  rate.  They 
may  know  where  he  belongs  and  I  can  arrange 
for  liis  transit.  I  had  no  idea  babies  were  so 
heavy— perhaps  it 's  just  as  well  it  is  n't  twins, 
after  all!"  She  laughed  softly  to  herself  with  her 
flushed  face  against  the  child's  fat  body. 

"Dinny!  Mummy!"  shrieked  the  child  sud- 
denly, in  a  piercing  voice,  and  Miss  Elphenstonne, 


"Fat-Legs"  in  Clover  317 

giving  a  little  jump,  stopped  laughing.  The 
victim  at  least  saw  no  humour  in  the  situation. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  had  no  breath  left  to 
laugh  with.  Her  whole  body  ached,  and  her  knees 
gave  way,  as  she  stumbled  bravely  forward.  The 
boy  was  infinitely  too  heavy  for  any  one  so  ridicu- 
lously small  as  herself.  The  task  she  had  under- 
taken was,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  Herculean;  a  less 
valiant  spirit  would  have  called  it  impossible. 
For  Miss  Elphenstonne  the  dictionary  held  no 
such  word.  Everything  was  possible  if  one  tried 
hard  enough.  She  was  ready  to  admit,  however, 
"it  might  be  a  bit  of  a  job."  So  she  staggered 
along,  her  face  white  and  drawn,  her  breath 
uneven,  her  arms  aching  almost  beyond  endurance. 
Tears  of  sheer  physical  distress  rose  to  her  eyes. 
To  make  matters  worse,  the  burden  had  now 
fallen  asleep,  and  hung,  a  dead  weight,  in  her  arms. 
Her  throat  grew  dry,  she  felt  sick  and  faint,  and 
drops  of  perspiration  ran  down  into  her  eyes, 
blinding  her. 

"Oh,  it  is  a  good  thing  it  isn't  twins!"  she 
thought  again,  a  little  hysterically. 

Just  then  a  welcome  tread  sounded  and  Mick 
strode  towards  her.  "Oh,  here  you  are—  '  he 
was  beginning,  when  he  stopped  to  stare  at  her 
proteg6,  his  face  a  thundercloud.  He  noted 
everything  in  that  instant's  survey — the  weight 
of  the  sleeping  child,  the  anguish  of  the  half- 
fainting  bearer  of  the  burden. 

A  violent  exclamation  burst  from  him  as  he 


3i 8  Vagabond  City 

snatched  the  child  roughly  from  her.  "Do  you 
want  to  kill  yourself?  What  are  you  doing  with 
the  little  beast,  anyway?  You  idiot — you  little 
idiot!" 

"Oh,  Mick,  don't  be  cross,"  she  panted,  ex- 
hausted, "and  it's  Baby  Ulysses — " 

His  face  did  not  relax. 

"What  were  you  doing  with  him?  Good 
heavens,  one  can't  trust  you  out  of  sight!" 

"It's  Fat-Legs,  and  he  was  lost,  poor  little 
mite " 

"  It  was  n't  he  who  looked  the  poor  little  mite ! " 
he  retorted  grimly.  "You  could  have  sent  some- 
one for  him." 

"Well,  it 's  such  a  duck,"  she  said  apologetically, 
"and  its  legs  are  so  fat,"  she  kissed  a  grubby  dim- 
pled knee  as  she  spoke.  "And  he  'd  have  been 
frightened  alone,  and  anyway,  Mick,"  her  eyes 
twinkled  wickedly,  "he  isn't  triplets,  or  even 
twins,  you  know!" 

Mick,  however,  refused  to  smile.  "How  far 
have  you  been  carrying  him?" 

"Only  from  the  clover-field." 

" Only  from  the  clover-field!     Good " 

"He  was  so  frightened,"  she  broke  in  quickly, 
"he  wanted  his  dinner  and  his  home.  It  was 
like  being  lost  in  the  desert  to  him.  Poor,  valiant, 
little  vagabond,  the  outside  world  has  disillusioned 
him  early!  Look  at  his  surprised,  blue  eyes." 

"I  hate  blue  eyes,"  said  Mick  savagely. 
Muriel's  eyes  were  a  shallow  blue,  and  young 


" Fat-Legs"  in  Clover  319 

Gore's  eyes  had  been  brightest,  clearest  blue;  it 
was  a  colour  that  spelt  nothing  good  for  Michael 
Talbot. 

"Well  ...  he's  'only  a  little  one!'"  replied 
the  girl,  making  a  face  at  her  stern  mentor. 

"You  looked  like  a  silly  little  three-year-old 
staggering  under  the  weight  of  the  'latest'  baby!" 
he  exclaimed,  exasperated. 

Miss  Elphenstonne's  eyes  were  very  beautiful  in 
their  pity :  ' '  Poor  mites — poor,  wee,  tiny  mites ! ' ' 

"Oh,Idaresay  .  .  ."he  spoke  gruffly,  "but  there's 
no  reason  to  make  a  wee,  tiny  mite  of  yourself. 
And  I  won't  have  it!  You  look  half -dead — I  've 
a  good  mind  to  carry  you  too!"  He  made  a 
quick  step  forward. 

She  was  quicker.  "Certainly  not!"  she  said 
hurriedly.  "Do  be  careful  of  Fat-Legs,  Mick, 
he  's  slipping."  She  came  and  moved  the  child 
to  a  more  comfortable  position.  "You're  not 
very  clever  at  carrying  babies,"  she  said  critically. 

"Am  I  likely  to  be?"  he  returned  harshly. 
"What  man  is — unless  he  possesses  one  of  his 
own,  and  I—  He  stopped  abruptly,  for  a 
sudden  thought  dominated  him,  and  he  grasped 
the  child  so  tightly  that  it  cried  out  in  terror. 
"If  he  was  the  Elf  s— and  mine! ' '  And  the  thought 
was  written  in  his  eyes  as  he  looked  straight  at 
the  woman  over  the  head  of  the  lost  baby. 

Their  gaze  held  together  for  a  long  moment, 
then  Miss  Elphenstonne  turned  quickly,  a  sudden 
look  of  horror  in  her  eyes. 


320  Vagabond  City 

"  I  'm  sure  he  must  have  come  from  the  near 
cottage,"  she  said,  speaking  breathlessly,  "he 
pointed  every  way  but  east,  and  there  's  a  woman 
there  with  yellow  hair  like  his." 

Mick  was  quite  incapable  of  reply,  and  made  no 
attempt  at  it. 

"I  hope  she's  kept  his  dinner  for  him,  poor 
wanderer, "  went  on  the  girl  lightly.  "  It  was  that 
which  troubled  him  most.  Such  a  baby  son  of 
Adam!  And  listening  to  every  word,  and  very 
angry  at  being  called  names.  Yes,  meals  are 
important  things,  Ulysses. " 

The  child  scowled  at  her.  She  had  not  carried 
him  comfortably,  he  had  not  felt  at  all  secure  in 
those  thin,  weak  arms;  this  big  brown  man  was 
much  more  to  his  taste.  And  probably  she  had 
helped  to  lose  him.  Women  were  such  silly 
things! 

"I've  known  things  more  so,"  said  Mick 
shortly. 

Miss  Elphenstonne  laughed — most  creditably. 
"  Oh,  have  you?  But  when  one  has  lost  one  's  way 
and  is  an  hour  late  and  not  sure  of  any  meal  at  all? 
It 's  rather  important  then,  is  n't  it?  You  're 
better  off  than  I,  for,  if  you  have  a  big  appetite,  it 
does  you  credit;  I  'm  a  'bad-doer',  as  Harrison 
says  of  the  Lady  Ever-Leaner.  By-the-bye,  have 
you  forgotten  you  are  to  finish  the  last  chapter  of 
the  book  to-morrow,  because  then  my  picture  can 
be  finished  too?" 

"The  way  you  Ve  slaved  to  rush  off  that  picture 


" Fat-Legs"  in  Clover  321 

is  ridiculous!"  said  Mick  angrily.  "You've 
worked  like  one  possessed.  What 's  the  hurry? 
There  's  plenty  of  time." 

"Is  there?  I  never  feel  like  that,  and  I  had  to 
finish  it.  What  a  pair  of  famous  people  we  shall 
be  when  both  our  efforts  are  given  to  the  world!" 

"  I  don't  give  the  Book  of  the  Elf  to  the  world, " 
returned  Mick.  "I  give  it  to  you,  and  you  know 
it !  They  can  damn  it  as  they  please,  it  is  nothing 
— less  than  nothing!  I  have  got  the  only  verdict 
that  counts!" 

"Rubbidge!  How  are  you  going  to  wear  your 
laurel  crown  ?  What  is  the  latest  ch ic-est  fashion  ? ' ' 

"It  won't  concern  me,"  said  Mick  indifferently. 
."It 's  the  last  thing  that  will  come  my  way.  I 
don't  want  it  enough.  There  are  two  things  I 
want  so  very  much  more!  But  yours  will  become 
you  however  you  wear  it — and  your  hair  is  like  a 
crown  already!" 

"A  horrid  silver  one,"  she  retorted,  making  a 
face,  "and  silver  is  so  cheap !  Oh,  Mick,  I  do  want 
my  laurel  crown,  want  it  dreadfully  and  beyond 
everything  in  the  world!" 

"Then  of  course  you  '11  get  it, "  he  returned  in  a 
tone  of  hopeless  finality.  "  I  wish  it  had  n't  stolen 
your  humanity,  my  dear. " 

"Ah,    there's   the   cottage!"   exclaimed   Mis 
Elphenstonne,  in  a  tone  of  relief,  for  they  were  on 
dangerous  ground,  "and  that  must  be  the  mother. 
She  has  the  same  yellow  hair  and  is  looking  dis- 
tracted.    Look!  she  sees  us!" 

21 


322  Vagabond  City 

"Yes,"  agreed  Mick.  "The  child's  asleep 
again. " 

"Wake  up,  Fat-Legs,"  whispered  Miss  Elphen- 
stonne,  "here's  a  shilling  for  having  dimples!" 
She  pushed  the  money  into  the  small,  hot 
hand. 

"And  half  a  crown  for  being  a  nuisance, "  added 
Michael  Talbot. 

"  There  's  nobody  to  give  us  anything  for  being 
fools  and  nuisances,"  observed  Miss  Elphenstonne 
plaintively.  "What  an  unjust  world  it  is,  to  be 
sure!  Has  he  got  the  money  all  right?" 

The  child  stared  at  his  benefactors  with  amazed 
eyes,  but  his  fat  hands  grasped  the  money  with  un- 
doubted tenacity.  He  was  not  so  young  that  an 
elder  brother  had  not  taken  him  to  the  little  shop 
and  post-office,  and  got  sweets  in  exchange  for 
something  that  clinked  like  this,  though  its  colour 
was  different.  The  man  had  carried  him  comfort- 
ably and  given  him  a  big,  fat  coin.  The  woman 
had  crumpled  him  up  and  nearly  dropped  him  and 
only  given  him  a  little  one.  Also  she  had  helped 
to  lose  him,  and  refused  to  understand  aright  his 
directions  as  to  the  homeward  track.  Therefore, 
he  stared  resentfully  at  the  woman  with  hard,  blue 
eyes;  but  Mick  got  a  brief,  shy  smile. 

"Will  the  parents  take  it  for  themselves?" 
wondered  Miss  Elphenstonne.  "I  believe  he  un- 
derstands. Look  how  those  fat  hands  are  holding 
on  for  all  they  are  worth!" 

"He    won't    let    them — the    young    beggar!" 


"Fat-Legs"  in  Clover  323 

chuckled  Mick.  "He  fs  going  to  be  a  financier 
or  a  money-lender;  I  can  see  it  in  his  eye!" 

"Oh,  Mick,  with  such  adorable,  fat  legs  and 
dimples!  You  shall  not  slander  the  duck!  He's 
going  to  be  a  stage  yokel,  never  dirty  but  always 
picturesque,  and  wear  a  smock  and  have  corn- 
coloured  hair  and  court  a  milkmaid  in  a  sun- 
bonnet!" 

"A  milkmaid  in  a  confection  from  the  Edgware 
Road,  and  cheap,  high-heeled  shoes!"  corrected 
the  ruthless  Mick. 

"  Oh,  you  novelists  never  have  any  pretty  fancies 
outside  your  books!"  cried  the  artist,  in  a  pre- 
tended rage.  "You  are  all  realists,  materialists, 
the  most  brutal  of  pessimists !  And  he  is  going  to 
be  a  yokel  and  court  a  maid  in  a  sun-bonnet!" 

"Unless  his  mother  sends  him  to  the  city  in  a 
top-hat — well,  here  she  is.  Good-bye,  Master 
Ulysses!" 

"A  kiss,  little  vagabond,  for  being  such  a 
naughty  Fat-Legs!"  Miss  Elphenstonne  sighed  a 
little  as  she  kissed  the  red  mouth. 

The  child  indignantly  wiped  away  the  kiss. 
Why  could  n't  the  woman  leave  him  alone? 
Had  n't  she  made  trouble  enough  for  him  already? 
But  when  the  big  man,  staring  hard  at  the  girl, 
kissed  him  too  on  the  same  spot  with,  "And  here  's 
another — to  keep  it  company,"  he  did  not  wipe 
that  away.  His  fellow-man  had  treated  him  as 
one  gentleman  should  treat  another. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  VAGABOND 

Give  to  me  the  life  I  love, 

Let  the  lane  go  by  me; 
Give  the  jolly  heaven  above 

And  the  byway  nigh  me.  .  .  . 

Let  the  blow  fall  soon  or  late, 

Let  what  will  be  o'er  me; 
Give  the  face  of  earth  around, 

And  the  road  before  me. 

R.  L.  STEVENSON. 

FOR  a  little  while  they  walked  homewards  in 
silence,  then   Mick  spoke  quickly,  sharply. 
"Elf  .  .  .   "he  began,  and  turned  on  her  wild, 
grey  eyes,  dark  with  passion. 

She  caught  his  arm  quickly,  and  looked  up  fear- 
lessly into  his  face.  "Don't  drive  me  out  of  the 
forest  yet,  Mick,"  she  implored,  "for  that  is  what 
it  will  mean  if  you  say  too  much.  There  is  a 
certain  line  ...  I  cannot  forgive  you  if  you 
cross  it,  for  everything  will  be  spoilt.  I  am  sorry, 
horribly  sorry,  but  it  will  pass  .  .  .  drive  it 
away,  Mick;  it 's  an  occupant  with  no  right  to 
house-room." 

324 


The  Vagabond  325 

"It  drives  me,  not  I  it,"  he  answered  sullenly, 
"and  I  cannot  feel  ' this  too  will  pass. '  It  will  go 
with  life,  I  suppose,  not  before." 

"  It  will  go  if  you  seek  to  make  it  go,  dear, "  she 
answered,  very  gently.  "  Don't  leave  me  without 
my  comrade,  my  friend.  I  want  him  so!"  He 
walked  by  her  side  struggling  with  himself,  and 
with  restraint  new  to  him.  He  dared  say  no  more, 
just  then  at  any  rate,  for  he  knew  she  would  fly 
from  the  forest  if  he  did.  He  saw  it  in  her  eyes. 
She  was  growing  a  little  afraid  of  him,  and  he  did 
not  know  whether  it  was  a  good  sign  or  not.  Did 
love  walk  hand  in  hand  with  fear? 

"What  shall  we  talk  of  then?  "  he  asked  heavily. 

"  Uncle  William, "  she  answered  instantly,  "he  's 
coming  to  say  good-bye  to-morrow,  and  oh,  what  a 
ceremony  he  will  make  of  it,  how  impressive  he  will 
be — and  how  you  and  I  will  laugh  afterwards! 
But  do  you  know,  I  can't  help  liking  him  in  spite 
of  his  pomposity  and  absurdity. " 

"You  'd  be  ungrateful  if  you  did  n't— since  you 
are  his  latest  secret  sorrow.  Do  you  know,  I  be- 
lieve his  wife  understands  him  perfectly." 

"Then  she  need  never  be  really  dull, "  returned 
Miss  Elphenstonne.  "  Imagine  a  husband  or  wife 
as  a  humorous  entertainment!  Oh,  here  we  are 
at  the  woods!  Mick  is  n't  it  gorgeous  this  after- 
noon. Look  at  the  colour,  the  line,  the  silence!" 

"I  suppose  so,"  he  answered,  with  an  effort, 
and  looked  down  at  her  as  the  one  picture  that 
mattered. 


326  Vagabond  City 

The  autumn  leaf  harvest  lay  brown  and  crimson 
and  gold  upon  the  ground,  and  Miss  Elphenstonne 
seemed  to  be  wading  through  a  river  deepening  into 
sullen  red ;  there  was  sunset  over  her  head  behind 
the  hill,  and  sunset  flaming  at  her  feet.  She  stood, 
the  centre  of  light  and  of  his  world.  Then  the 
other  worlds  came  surging  up  towards  him,  took 
him  by  the  hand,  and  he  moved,  a  man  between 
two  obsessions.  One  would  not  content  him,  he 
must  have  both ;  the  new  love  seemed  the  dearer, 
but  she  cared  only  to  push  him  into  the  arms  of  the 
oldest  love  of  them  all.  The  familiar  lines  of  the 
East  India  Dock  Road  rose  before  him;  the  road 
that  leads  to  wandering ;  the  highway  to  many  and 
wide  seas ;  the  pathway  of  sailor-men  and  vagabonds 
such  as  he.  The  road  they  knew  best;  the  road 
they  loved  best;  the  way  that  led  to  life — and  to 
death.  Five  times  he  had  passed  down  it,  and 
there  always  seemed  another  time  to  come.  Of 
course  he  had  gone  by  other  roads,  travelled  on  the 
great  liners,  rubbed  shoulders  in  floating  palaces 
with  the  great  and  the  small.  When  in  funds,  this 
last  road  was  swifter  to  an  end.  His  companions 
he  had  understood  with  a  cruel,  uncanny  intention : 
of  them  he  had  been  understood  not  at  all,  but  he 
had  been  loved,  and  he  had  been  sought  by  both 
men  and  women;  he  had  been  almost  worshipped, 
for,  though  he  carried  no  harp,  yet  he  was  an  Ulys- 
ses whose  golden  lure  lay  in  his  strange  roving 
heart  binding  to  him  the  hearts  of  men.  Not  many 
had  chosen  to  pass  him  by  without  a  word  of  recog- 


The  Vagabond  327 

nition  or  greeting,  though  one  had  done  so,  and  he 
had  been  glad  of  it.  ...  Once  he  had  been 
passing  through  a  land  where  men  with  haunted, 
fever-stricken  faces  were  hourly  drained  of  life, 
to  earn  the  means  to  live ;  where  they  rose  at  morn 
in  their  full  strength  and  lay  under  the  sod  ere 
another  dawn,  adding  yet  one  more  to  the  toll  of  the 
White  Man's  Grave.  While  he  sought  an  old,  dear 
school  and  college  friend,  of  whose  fortunes  he  had 
heard  last  in  this  country,  rumour  had  brought  him 
much  concerning  the  ways  of  a  native  chief  whose 
name  was  a  synonym  for  all  that  was  bestial  and 
cruel,  and  it  was  hinted  that  Mick's  old  friend,  curi- 
ous as  to  native  customs,  clever  at  their  language, 
and  at  disguise,  might  have  met  an  unspeakable 
fate  at  the  hands  of  this  human  beast.  But  Mick, 
an  optimist,  refused  to  believe  this  possibility,  and, 
bit  by  bit,  traced  his  friend  along  the  coast  and  to 
the  very  foot  of  a  native  village.  And  then  as  he 
waited  for  parley  with  the  awful  chief,  the  big-gun 
expedition,  white  soldiers,  a  band  of  trusty  natives 
round  him,  the  native  leader,  acknowledging  the 
flag  of  truce,  had  walked  slowly  up  to  him  to  tell— 
what  he  chose  to  tell — of  the  fate  of  the  vanished 
Englishman,  and  as  he  came,  Mick  heard  tales  that 
turned  him  sick.  Brute,  devil,  native,  this  crea- 
ture advancing  was  yet  a  man,  and  formed  in  the 
image  of  a  godhead.  Then  he  came  near,  and  for 
a  minute  Mick  stood  face  to  face  with  him— and 
saw  looking  out  of  a  face,  cruel  with  a  cruelty  be- 
low man's,  bestial  with  a  bestiality  below  a  brute's, 


328  Vagabond  City 

the  blue  eyes  of  his  friend.  Something  human — 
since  shame  is  human — had  flashed  for  a  moment 
into  that  debased  face;  then  Mick,  in  his  smart 
white  tropical  suit,  and  the  dark  man  clad  as  a 
native,  parted  without  a  word  or  further  look  .  .  . 
and  the  hottest,  most  stinging  shame,  had  re- 
mained with  Mick.  He  told  the  others  that  his 
friend  was  dead — and  better  dead :  and  the  name  of 
the  man  never  passed  his  lips  again.  It  was  good 
to  wander  about  the  world,  to  know  a  thousand 
strange  experiences,  odd  coincidences;  but  it  was 
not  good  to  look  upon  such  things  as  these.  .  .  . 

Miss  Elphenstonne,  horrified  by  a  look  which 
crept  over  his  face,  touched  him  on  the  arm. 
"What  is  it?"  she  cried. 

He  recovered  himself  with  an  effort,  shuddering 
slightly.  "  It  is  something  I  cannot  bear  to  think 
about,  much  less  mention,"  he  answered.  "A 
ghost  out  of  the  past,  that  is  all." 

She  said  no  more,  but  the  fact  that  even  while 
he  walked  by  her  side,  even  while  he  would  have 
her  listen  to  vows  of  passionate  love,  he  could  for- 
get her,  wander  off  a  thousand  miles  in  spirit,  did 
not  altogether  please  her.  She  should  have  been 
glad  that  the  old  love  she  bade  him  cleave  to  was 
the  strongest  after  all.  Yet,  was  she  quite 
glad? 

1 '  Your  face  was  horrible, ' '  she  said.  ' '  It  fright- 
ened me!  Here  we  are  home  at  last — and  here  is 
Esmerelda  coming  down  the  hill  to  meet  us." 

After  that,  Mick  saw  little  or  nothing  of  Miss 


The  Vagabond  329 

Elphenstonne  for  several  days ;  she  withdrew  her- 
self completely,  making  work  her  excuse. 

"  But  I  never  hindered  you  before ! "  he  objected. 

"You  hinder  me  now,"  she  answered,  looking 
into  his  stormy  eyes.  "Just  for  a  few  days — till  I 
can  have  my  old,  sensible,  cured  Mick  again! " 

"And  Byrne — is  he  to  leave  you  alone  too?"  he 
flashed  jealously,  for  the  doctor  called  at  the  tent 
more  often  than  Mick  thought  at  all  necessary — 
even  in  the  guise  of  friendship  and  art-lover. 

She  flung  back  her  head.  "That  is,  of  course, 
entirely  as  he  and  I  choose, "  she  answered,  a  little 
recklessly. 

"If  that  man  interferes  too  much,  I  shall  wring 
his  neck, "  Mick  said  calmly. 

Miss  Elphenstonne' s  eyes  blazed,  and  she  turned 
on  her  heel.  "I  see  we  are  never  going  to  be 
friends  again,"  she  exclaimed. 

"Oh,  yes  we  are,"  he  said  certainly,  ere  walk- 
ing off,  "and  more  than  friends,  Elf — more  than 
friends!" 

His  tone  was  so  savagely  sure  that  a  sudden  sense 
of  fear  fell  upon  her,  and  she  looked  after  the  big 
frame  in  dismay.  "Perhaps  I  had  better  just 
pack  up  and  fly, "  she  said  to  herself.  But  she  did 
nothing  of  the  sort. 

Mick  tramped  the  forest  for  hours,  and  then, 
raging  against  the  shackles  that  bound  him,  flung 
himself  in  at  the  cottage  door. 

Muriel  looked  up  startled  at  his  rough  entrance. 
"What  is  it?"  she  exclaimed.  "And  how  late 


330  Vagabond  City 

you  are!  Have  you  had  supper?  There 's  a 
cold  chicken." 

' '  Thanks. ' '     He  tackled  it  in  silence. 

"  I  thought  you  were  going  to  stay  out  all  night, " 
she  said  plaintively,  "and  then  goodness  knows 
what  Mrs.  Hobbs  and  Aunt  Susan  would  have 
said !  Really  you  're  the  most  extraordinary  and 
erratic  person  that  ever  was  born,  and  I  think  the 
forest  makes  you  worse!  I  daresay  you  will  be 
better  when  we  get  into  a  civilised  neighbourhood 
and  have  a  nice  smart  house  and  social  claims. 
Good-night,  and  oh — while  I  remember,  Aunt 
Susan  wants  you  specially  to  look  at  the  brakes  of 
hei  bicycle,  they  Ve  got  jammed  or  something  and 
they  won't  act  and  she  may  want  to  use  it  any 
day !  You  put  yours  right,  so  perhaps  you  '11  do 
hers?" 

"Of  course!"  he  answered  absently. 

"You  won't  forget?  You  '11  be  sure  not  to 
forget?" 

"Oh,  of  course  I  won't  forget!"  he  answered, 
scarcely  conscious  of  what  she  was  saying. 

So  Dr.  Byrne  might  go  in  and  out  as  he  pleased, 
might  he  ?  He  had  n't  got  warned  off  the  premises ! 
He  'd  better  take  care! 


CHAPTER  XIX 

A  CEREMONIOUS  LEAVE-TAKING 

1WI R-  HIGGINS,  full  of  smiles  and  loving  kind- 
*  »  *  ness,  was  driving  up  from  Stony  Cross.  He 
was  going  to  see  his  niece,  upon  whom  he  had  con- 
ferred such  benefits,  also  "poor  Susan,"  who  could 
not  conceal  her  admiration  for  him  and  envy  of  his 
wife,  Mick,  to  whom  he  had  taken  the  strongest 
fancy  as  one  man  of  intellect  to  another,  and — Miss 
Elphenstonne.  Though  he  had  succumbed  to  the 
fascinations  of  the  artist,  he  never  forgot  she  was 
niece  of  Lord  Elphenstonne  and  intimate  of  the 
Comtesse  de  Malmedy.  He  felt  that  he  was  prac- 
tically moving  in  the  great  world  when  he  talked 
to  the  Bohemian  who  took  no  account  whatsoever 
of  social  glories.  Born  to  greatness,  doomed  to 
greatness,  as  he  knew  himself  to  be,  under  the  ad- 
miring appreciative  grateful  eyes  of  those  he  had 
benefited,  the  very  acme  of  greatness  was  reached. 
He  saw  it  not  only  as  reflected  in  his  own  eyes  in 
the  glass,  but  in  the  eyes  of  others.  Even  Mrs. 
Hobbs  knew  him  for  what  he  was,  and  Mick  had 
discovered  that  under  his  vein  of  natural  dignity 
and  hauteur,  there  ran  a  true  fund  of  wit  and 

331 


332  Vagabond  City 

humour,  and  that,  but  for  his  superiority  to  temp- 
tation, he  would  have  been  a  very  bad,  bold  man 
indeed. 

"My  dear  young  people!"  and  he  had  grasped 
them  emotionally  by  the  hand.  "So  the  fatted 
calf  has  been  killed  for  the  prodigal  uncle — ha !  ha ! 
— and  the  estimable  Mrs.  Hobbs  is  to  cook  a  fare- 
well lunch!  And  our  clever  young  artist  friend  is 
to  honour  us  with  her  company!" 

"How  do  you  do,  William?"  said  Miss  Dalton,  a 
little  jealously  coming  forward. 

"And  how  are  you  ?  "  he  purred,  in  rather  a  pity- 
ing fashion,  over  the  stumpy  hand  of  Miss  Dalton. 
"  Dear  me,  as  young  as  ever !  We  shall  hear  of  you 
being  married  to  some  charming  young  man  one 
of  these  days.  Ha!  ha!"  He  did  not,  however, 
really  expect  it. 

"  I  do  not  care  for  young  men,"  said  Miss  Dalton, 
not  ill-pleased.  "They  are  too  wild  and  reckless 
for  my  taste,  too  crude."  She  looked  at  Mick. 
She  had  been  very  much  annoyed  in  the  days  of  her 
— comparative — youth,  when  her  young  fiance  had 
snatched  the  cup  of  matrimony  from  her  lips  by  get- 
ting drowned  a  few  days  before  the  wedding.  She 
never  quite  forgave  him  in  her  heart.  He  might  just 
as  well  have  met  his  fate  a  few  days  after  the  wed- 
ding, when  she  would  have  had  a  right  to  "Mrs." 
for  the  rest  of  her  life,  perhaps  even  have  married 
again.  Widows  seemed  to  find  it  easier  to  be  mar- 
ried than  rather  elderly  spinsters.  The  romance  of 
her  whole  life  had  been  wasted  on  the  great  Mr.  Hig- 


A  Ceremonious  Leave-Taking    333 

gins.  She  admired  his  presence  and  she  worshipped 
his  success.  She  had  thought  of  him  by  day  and 
dreamed  of  him  by  night,  and  had  magnified  his 
vacillating  attentions — and  had  gone  in  her  best 
clothes  and  with  her  best  brave  smile  to  see  him 
married  to  another.  Dr.  Byrne  had— at  one  time 
— seemed  "a  chance,"  but  about  him  no  romantic 
fancies  gathered,  and  now  even  he  had  gone  over 
to  the  camp  of  the  enemy,  and  was  more  friendly 
with  the  erratic  artist  than  was  at  all  judicious. 
One  by  one  her  hopes  had  failed,  one  by  one  the 
dreams  of  life  had  fled  from  her,  but  nothing  could 
destroy  her  somewhat  bitter  admiration  for  the 
man  who  had  once  come  near  to  marrying  her. 

Jane  seemed  to  care  little  or  nothing  for  the 
great  position  she  had  won.  Miss  Dalton  would 
have  exalted  in  it,  been  intolerable  to  those  whom 
she  considered  her  inferiors.  Mrs.  Higgins  had 
no  adoring  admiration  for  her  husband.  Miss 
Dalton  would  have  worshipped  him,  have  been  his 
slave ;  have  held  it  her  highest  privilege  to  wait  on 
him  hand  and  foot,  and  listen  reverently  to  every 
golden  word  of  wisdom  that  dropped  from  his 
lips.  She  would  have  revelled  in  the  daily  drive 
in  the  smart  carriage-and-pair,  especially  past  the 
houses  of  acquaintances  who  could  never  hope  even 
for  a  donkey  cart.  Jane  hated  it,  and  sat  bolt 
upright  with  an  uneasy  air.  She  preferred  to  put 
on  great,  thick  boots  and  a  tweed  skirt  and  go  for  a 
tramp  with  her  mangy  beast  of  a  dog — a  creature 
that  was  not  in  the  least  like  a  lady's  dog,  but 


334  Vagabond  City 

which  the  stupid  wife  had  picked  up  starving  in  the 
streets — as  if  that  were  any  excuse !  Miss  Dalton 
was  a  religious  and  orthodox  woman,  but  at  times 
a  peevish  feeling  that  the  ways  of  Providence  were 
unaccountably  strange  would  obtrude  itself  upon 
her.  The  great  Mr.  Higgins  was  utterly  wasted 
on  the  provincial  Jane — but  God  had  given  him  to 
Jane  and  not  to  her!  As  a  good  churchwoman  she 
bowed  her  head  to  the  cross,  but  the  old  and  un- 
subdued Adam  wanted  sadly  to  rebel! 

"You  all  look  so  fresh  and  well,"  sighed  Mr. 
Higgins.  "You  make  me  feel  jaded  with  the  cares 
of  office!  Even  Esmerelda  is  in  the  pink  of  con- 
dition—ha! ha!" 

"Ha!  ha!"  echoed  everybody  obediently,  while 
Esmerelda  smirked  at  the  gracious  notice. 

"Be  good,  Esmerelda!"  said  the  rich  uncle, 
patting  the  beast. 

"And  if  you  can't  be  good,  be  careful!"  added 
Mick,  with  a  meaning  wink  at  his  gay  and  de- 
lighted relative. 

"Tut!  tut!"  said  Mr.  Higgins,  preening  himself. 

He  strolled  out  after  the  nephew-in-law  and  took 
him  affectionately  by  the  arm.  "Well,  my  boy, 
how  's  matrimony?"  he  enquired  jocularly. 

"You  should  know  best — you  Ve  been  married 
longer, "  retorted  Mick. 

"Ha!  ha!  What  a  fellow  you  are  to  be  sure! 
But  I  am  not  on  my  honeymoon  with  the  wife  of 
my  heart!  We  don't  all  have  your  luck,  my  dear 
chap." 


A  Ceremonious  Leave-Taking     335 

" So  it  seems,"  agreed  Mick  pleasantly.  "Think 
I  can't  see  your  little  game,  you  old  reprobate! 
The  poor,  unsophisticated,  little  thing— you  '11 
break  her  heart!" 

"Not  at  all!"  said  Mr.  Higgins,  suppressing  a 
beam  of  unholy  joy;  "and  I  should  not  call  her 

actually  unsophisticated " 

'But  compared  with  you- 


"Ah  well,  of  course  .  .  .  but  a  married  man, 
my  dear  Mick,  one  holding,  if  I  may  say  so,  great 
responsibilities.  ..." 

"Then  you  will  not  ask  her  to  fly  with  you?" 
enquired  Mick,  with  a  little  sigh.  "Poor  girl, 
it  '11  be  a  sad  blow  to  her!  When  one  's  an  artist 
and  from  Paris  and  related  to  a  peer,  one  expects 
that  sort  of  thing — ask  Mrs.  Hobbs.  She  knows. " 

"My  dear  fellow,  you  're  joking,  of  course!" 

"I  only  hope  it  '11  prove  a  joke  to  her,"  said 
Mick,  shaking  his  head.  "Fun  to  you,  death  to 
me,  sort  of  business,  you  know. " 

"If  I  thought  I  'd  blighted  that  poor  girl's  life, 
I  'd  want  to  shoot  myself!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Higgins 
passionately,  really  distressed.  "Why  I  admire 
her,  respect  her,  more  than  I  can  say.  She  's — 
she  's  been  a  revelation  to  me!  But  I  thought  it 
wiser  to  go,  to  see  no  more  of  her 

"Your  high  sense  of  honour  does  you  credit — but 
if  she  expects  to  be  flown  with?" 

Mr.  Higgins  wiped  a  heated  face.  "I  am  a 
married  man.  I  have  a  great  position  in  the  eyes 
of  the  world,"  he  stammered,  "and— I  take  the 


336  Vagabond  City 

collections,"    he    added,    with,  confused    incon- 
sequence. 

Mick  dug  him  daringly  in  the  ribs — or  as  near  to 
them  as  he  could  get — "I  see,  the  get-rich-quick 
idea!" 

"Oh,  shocking,  shocking!"  said  the  great  Wil- 
liam, with  an  undignified  giggle.  ' '  You  knew  what 
I  meant  .  .  .  they  depend  upon  me  at  the  church. 
I  am  the  rector's  right  hand  man;  it 's  not  only  the 
collections.  ..." 

"The  poor-boxes  too?"  suggested  the  irrepress- 
ible Mick. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  Mr.  Higgins  was  very  much 
the  pillar  of  his  church,  and  greatly  respected. 
He  collected  with  such  awful  majesty,  that  no  one 
— however  skilful  the  clink — dare  essay  buttons, 
and  the  poor  felt  deadly  ashamed  of  their  humble 
halfpennies  under  the  godlike  eye  of  Mr.  Higgins. 
The  very  poor,  lacking  the  moral  courage  to  defy 
Mr.  Higgins  and  pass  the  plate,  preferred  to  leave 
the  church,  which  was  on  the  whole  a  good  thing, 
since  it  left  more  room  for  the  wealthier  members. 
As  a  sidesman  Mr.  Higgins's  tact  was  equal  to  any 
emergency,  and  the  wealthy  were  never  crowded. 
Then  they  returned  to  a  very  excellent  luncheon, 
and  to  find  Mis*  Elphenstonne  looking  very  de- 
mure and  very  picturesque,  awaiting  them.  She 
scarcely  looked  at  Mick,  but  Mr.  Higgins  she 
greeted  with  what  poor  Miss  Dalton  considered 
bold  effusiveness,  and  actually  chaffed  him  on  his 
prolonged  bachelor  holiday. 


A  Ceremonious  Leave-Taking    337 

"How  she  has  the  nerve! "  wondered  the  unhappy 
lady,  and  liked  her  none  the  more  for  it. 

Mr.  Higgins,  wondering  if  after  all  it  could  be 
possible  he  had  made  a  conquest  of  this  gay  crea- 
ture, met  her  with  ill-suppressed  emotion,  which 
he  believed  she  would  understand.  And  Miss 
Elphenstonne,  giving  Mick  a  look  of  camaraderie, 
understood  perfectly,  and  wore  very  large  and 
fascinating  twinkles  in  her  eyes. 

"  It 's  sad  to  think  the  best  of  friends  must  part," 
sighed  Mr.  Higgins  heavily,  as  he  passed  his  plate 
for  a  second  helping  of  Mrs.  Hobbs's  most  excellent 
game  pie.  He  was  a  little  shocked  to  note  what  a 
hearty  appetite  the  small,  lorn  maiden  possessed. 
Perhaps  she  had  n't  taken  the  smart  very  seriously 
after  all.  He  hoped  not — he  was  quite  sure  he 
hoped  not.  It  would  be  awful  to  blight  a  young 
girl's  life,  and  Miss  Elphenstonne  was  not  even  a 
young  girl,  but  a  brilliant,  well-connected  woman  of 
the  world.  That  was  the  type  that  never  got  over 
it,  never  married  anybody  else.  Mr.  Higgins 
blew  his  nose  loudly,  and  Esmerelda  looked  up 
with  a  jerk. 

"He  thinks  it 's  the  trumpet-call  to  the  feast," 
said  Mick,  after  a  sly  wink  at  Miss  Elphenstonne. 

1 '  My  dear  Mick ! "  Mr.  Higgins's  voice  was  full 
of  grave  reproof.  ' '  You  go  a  little  too  far,  my  dear 
fellow,  a  little  too  far,  you  do  indeed. " 

"Don't  make  fun  of  things  like  that—  '  whis- 
pered Muriel  angrily. 

"Sacred  things,"  whispered  back  Mick,  looking 

32 


338  Vagabond  City 

at  the  suffused  nose  of  Mr.  Higgins,  and  saying 
aloud  to  that  gentleman,  "I  meant  it  all  quite 
metaphorically,  and  I  was  sure  you  would  under- 
stand. " 

"Of  course,"  said  Mr.  Higgins  uneasily,  "of 
course  I  understand!"  Had  he  missed  the  clue 
of  one  man  of  intellect  to  another?  Was  it  perhaps 
a  quotation?  Or  something  very  clever,  very 
subtle?  He  knew  he  understood  Mick  Talbot,  as 
well  as  that  young  man  understood — with  due 
reverence — himself. 

"And  so  you  're  quite  making  your  fortune, "  he 
went  on  quickly.  "I  shall  have  a  famous  author 
for  a  nephew.  Ha !  ha ! " 

"I  can  but  hope  to  hold  a  night-light  to  your 
acetylene  lamp,"  said  Mick  very  humbly,  "but  as 
long  as  you  refrain  from  blowing  me  out  .  .  .  ." 

"Ha!  ha!"  cried  Mr.  Higgins  appreciatively. 
"You  need  n't  be  afraid  of  that.  I  will  have  you 
to  meet  my  friends — I  will  indeed!  I  feel  sure 
they  will  be  charmed  .  .  .  charmed.  .  .  .  Jane 
shall  give  a  big  reception  and  you  shall  be  the 
chief  pitce  de-de — you  know  what  I  mean,  and  I 
will  introduce  you  personally  to  the  Bishop,  and 
Sir  Walter  Badbury,  charming  people  I  assure  you." 

Muriel's  face  lit  up  with  delighted  surprise. 
Oh,  how  clever  of  Mick  to  get  round  Uncle  William ! 
She  flung  her  husband  a  grateful  look.  Why  their 
fortunes,  financially  and  socially,  were  made !  The 
Bishop !  Sir  Walter  Badbury ! 

Mick  bowed  his  head.     "The  honour  is  too 


A  Ceremonious  Leave-Taking     339 

great  for  me, "  he  said,  in  a  broken  voice.     "I  am 
unworthy,  overcome — 

"Not  at  all,  my  dear  fellow,  not  at  all,  though 
the  right  spirit!  And  perhaps  our  young  friend, " 
turning  with  much  empressement  to  Miss  Elphen- 
stonne,  "will  honour  us  too?  The  Bishop  and 
Sir  Walter  will  be  delighted  I  feel  sure.  Possibly 
you  know  his  lordship's  aunt,  Lady  Georgina?" 

But  Miss  Elphenstonne  had  never  heard  of  the 
Bishop's  aunt  and  said  so.  Mr.  Higgins,  his  eyes 
exuding  love,  and  the  third  helping  of  a  rich  pud- 
ding, felt  his  heart  swell  within  him.  How  fond  he 
was  of  them  all!  He  might  even,  had  there  been 
an  emporium  handy  where  one  got  plenty  of  choice 
and  one's  money's  worth,  have  done,  what  he  had 
never  done  before  even  on  a  holiday,  when  he  was 
the  most  genial  of  beings,  and  spent  recklessly  upon 
them  all,  bought  them  presents  to  remember  him 
especially  by.  And  he  would  have  given  Mick  a 
box  of  the  best  cigars  too;  there  would  even  have 
been  a  half-crown  photo  frame  for  "poor  Susan, " 
and  he  would  have  sent  her  a  signed  photograph  to 
put  in  it :  she  had  so  few  pleasures.  Muriel  should 
have  had  something  for  three  or  four  shillings,  and 
Miss  Elphenstonne  something  very  nice  indeed, 
possibly  costing  fifteen  or  sixteen  shillings.  One 
did  not  give  half-crown  photo  frames  to  nieces  of 
peers  and  intimates  of  countesses  of  note.  Even 
Mrs.  Hobbs  should  have  something.  But  of 
course  there  was  no  place  where  one  could  be 
rash  and  foolish. 


340  Vagabond  City 

Mrs.  Hobbs,  catching  his  eye,  had  already  de- 
cided that  as  far  as  she  was  concerned,  Mr.  Higgins 
was  going  to  prove  himself  very  rash  and  foolish 
indeed,  and  bestow  upon  her  a  memento  worthy 
of  his  greatness  and  her  expectations. 

"Alas!  all  good  things  must  come  to  an  end," 
said  Mr.  Higgins,  rising  very  heavily  from  the 
table,  as  the  sound  of  wheels  approached.  "I 
must  say  au  revoir  though  not  good-bye.  Ha !  ha ! " 

As  the  one  of  least  consequence,  he  bestowed  his 
first  benediction  on  Miss  Dalton,  who  was  so  upset 
by  it  that  she  spent  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  pro- 
strate in  her  own  chamber,  thinking  with  vain  tears 
of  the  might-have-been. 

Muriel  he  kissed  fondly.  "I  feel  I  shall  never 
have  cause  to  regret  what  I  have  done  for  you, 
Muriel, ' '  he  said  solemnly.  ' '  You  ' ve  been  worthy 
of  it,  you  and  that  clever  husband  of  yours.  I  said 
from  the  first  he  would  make  his  way,  and  that 
you  were  a  very,  very  lucky  girl.  Never  forget 
the  great  responsibilities  of  matrimony;  never  for- 
get, my  dear,  dear  child,"  his  voice  became  husky 
"to  thank  God  kneeling  for  a  good  man's  love. " 

"Oh,  yes!"  gasped  Muriel,  "I  do!"  What  a 
mercy  he  never  suspected  the  truth,  the  real  charac- 
ter of  Mick.  Certainly  her  husband  was  clever, 
for  he  could  hoodwink  even  the  great  Mr.  Higgins. 
"I  always  do,"  she  said,  not  quite  truthfully, 
"and  for  you  too,  Uncle  William." 

"Tut!  tut!"  said  Mr.  Higgins,  very  much 
affected.  "Tut!  tut!  my  dear.  If  we  are  n't  put 


A  Ceremonious  Leave-Taking    341 

into  the  world  to  do  good,  specially  to  our  relations, 
what  are  we  here  for?  If  Fate  and  God  have  seen 
fit  to  call  us  to  the  high  places,  must  n't  we  seek  to 
raise  up  those  in  the  low?  Not  that  I  mean  for  a 
moment  your  husband  is  in  such  a  position.  He 
will  get  to  the  top,  I  said  it  from  the  first— and  Miss 
Elphenstonne  agrees  with  me. " 

"Of  course  she  is  very  clever,"  said  Muriel 
grudgingly. 

"She  is  a  very  great  young  lady  indeed,"  said 
Mr.  Higgins  gravely.  "  I  have  the  highest  opinion 
of  her  mental  and  social  abilities.  As  the  wife  of  a 
man  placed  above  his  fellows  she  should  be  an 
asset — the  very  greatest  asset." 

"Oh,  Uncle  William,  what  do  you  mean?"  cried 
Muriel  alarmed.  "She  's  not  likely  to  marry  now. 
She  's  quite  old,  and  her  hair  is  grey.  ..." 

"She  is  quite  likely  to  marry — and  anybody 
she  pleases,"  said  Mr.  Higgins,  displeased,  "and 
it  is  my  earnest  hope  she  will  do  so  and  forget  .  .  . 
an  idle  dream. " 

"Oh,  Uncle  William!"  almost  wailed  Muriel. 
Had  the  artist  dreamed  her  idle  dream  about  Uncle 
William?  A  married  man!  The  property  of  his 
nephews  and  nieces.  A  great  being  far  out  of  her 
reach!  And  had  he  ...  encouraged  her? 

"My  dear,  that  is  enough,  we  will  say  no  more. " 
His  voice  trailed  mournfully.  "It  is  not  given  to 
all  of  us  to  marry  in  our  youth  the  love  of  our  heart. 
Greatness  does  not  always  mean  happiness. 
Many  a  secret  sorrow  gnaws  its  way  .  .  .  uneasy 


342  Vagabond  City 

lies  the  head  that  wears  a  crown'  .  .  .  ."  He 
was  too  overcome  for  more.  True,  he  might  not 
wear  a  crown,  but  one  could  substitute  the  word 
coronet.  The  peerage  was  ever  looming  nearer 
the  horizon.  He  was  worth  five  hundred  thousand 
pounds. 

Muriel,  flying  perturbed  to  her  own  room,  met 
Mick  on  the  stairs.  "Well,  has  he  done  enjoying 
himself?"  he  enquired. 

"Enjoying  himself!  He  was  saying  good-bye  to 
me,  to  us  all — he  's  with  Miss  Elphenstonne  now — 
and  he  's  awfully  upset!" 

"That 's  what  I  meant." 

"Oh,  what  are  you  talking  about!  Mick,  pro- 
mise that  on  the  way  to  the  station  you  will  keep 
it  up,  not  let  him  see  you  as  you  are,  suspect  .  .  . 
he  thinks  quite  a  lot  of  you.  It 's  odd. "  The 
last  words  escaped  her  against  her  will. 

' '  Rather ! ' '  agreed  Mick,  with  a  grin.  ' '  Devilish 
odd!  Dare  I  go  down  or  shall  I  find  him  weeping 
on  the  Elf's  shoulder?  I  do  hope  he  '11  remember 
his  hundred  stone  or  so,  and  that  she  's  barely  six, 
poor  little  mite.  Shall  I  have  to  sweep  up  her 
mangled  remains?" 

"He  spoke  of  her  in  the  most  peculiar  manner 
I  did  not  like  it  at  all.  It  was  not  quite  .  .  .  nice. 
One  would  think— 

"He  'd  fallen  in  love  with  her,  and  that  only  his 
great  sense  of  right  forbade  him  to  'Let 's  fly  to- 
gether, love,  never  mind  the  weather,  love.' 
Just  so.  He 's  heartbroken.  And  then  he 's 


A  Ceremonious  Leave-Taking    343 

blighted  her,  spoiled  her  life!  It's  an  awful 
thought  for  a  man  like  Uncle  William!" 

Muriel  gazed  at  him  with  horror.  "You  cannot 
mean  that — it  would  be  too  awful — that  he  was 
faithless  to  Jane  in  his  heart,  I  mean.  Poor  Jane, 
who  must  think  so  much  of  him,  worship  him 
so!" 

"Perhaps  it 's  just  the  exuberance  of  his  bachelor 
holiday,"  said  Mick.  "Perhaps  he  always  does 
it.  Perhaps  his  track  is  strewn  with  the  bodies  of 
the  slain.  Ho  yus!" 

' '  How  can  you  be  so  flippant !  And  you  pretend 
to  be  her  friend.  Perhaps  she  didn't  know  he 
was  married.  Perhaps  she  cherished  hopes.  It 
would  have  been  a  great  match  for  her." 

"What  you  women  have  to  put  up  with!"  re- 
turned Mick,  wiping  away  imaginary  tears.  "How 
you  do  get  left,  to  be  sure!  How  often  are  you 
blighted!" 

"You  have  no  feeling  at  all!  I  did  think  you 
would  have  minded  about  her.  You  're  not  only 
heartless  to  me  and  about  poor  Aunt  Susan,  but  to 
your  greatest  friend!" 

Descending,  Mick  found  Miss  Elphenstonne, 
twinkling  outrageously— and  quite  fascinating 
Mr.  Higgins  afresh  by  the  brightness  of  her 
great  eyes— in  the  throes  of  a  heart-rending 
farewell  to  the  might-have-been.  She  was  strug- 
gling to  withdraw  her  hands  before  Mr.  Higgins 
should  have  fulfilled  his  fell  intention  of  be- 
stowing a  kiss  upon  one  of  them.  Mr.  Higgins 


344  Vagabond  City 

was  moved  to  the  depths  of  his  being;  there  were 
tears  in  his  eyes,  and  Miss  Elphenstonne's  wet 
lashes  filled  him  with  a  hundred  strange  emotions. 
He  did  not  know  that  hers  were  tears  of  laughter. 
Mick  saw  the  clumsy  salute;  unfortunately  the 
horrified,  incredulous  Muriel  saw  it  too.  "She 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  herself!"  she  cried  chok- 
ingly, and  decided  that  Miss  Dalton  must  never 
know.  The  artist  was  dangerous  after  all,  in  spite 
of  her  ugliness,  and  it  was  just  as  well  Mr.  Higgins 
was  leaving. 

Mr.  Higgins  humm'd  and  ha'd  and  tried — not 
very  successfully — to  look  innocent  when  his  niece 
appeared.  Had  she  seen?  Did  she  suspect  any- 
thing? What  a  Lothario  she  would  think  him! 
Dear!  dear!  To  do  the  right,  to  choose  the  better 
part,  and  still  to  be  condemned, — misunderstood! 

"Oh,  there  you  are  Uncle  William!"  said  Muriel, 
as  if  surprised,  and  Mr.  Higgins  decided  that  she 
had  seen  nothing.  Mick,  of  course,  would  under- 
stand, he  was  a  man  of  the  world,  a  man  of  heart. 

"Yes,  here  I  am— ha!  ha!"  said  Mr.  Higgins, 
"and  here  you  are,  my  dear,  ha!  ha!  Come  to  see 
the  last  of  the  poor  old  uncle!  Well,  I  must  not 
keep  the  trap  waiting  any  longer,  or  the  rascal  will 
want  to  charge  for  his  time. " 

Mrs.  Hobbs  appeared  at  the  back-kitchen  door, 
and  Mr.  Higgins,  perhaps  to  hide  his  confusion, 
decided  to  extend  his  benediction  to  her.  As  a 
cook  she  was  divine,  and  a  few  kind,  encouraging 
words  would  make  the  poor  woman  happy,  give 


A  Ceremonious  Leave-Taking    345 

her  something  to  look  back  upon.  The  future 
peer  would  speak  to  her  as  one  human  to  another. 

"How  pleased  Aunt  Jane  will  be  to  have  you 
back  again!"  said  Muriel  softly,  adding,  with  a 
smile  to  Miss  Elphenstonne,  "Aunt  Jane  is  Uncle's 
wife,  you  know." 

Mr.  Higgins  went  red  and  dived  into  the  back- 
kitchen.  Was  this  a  time  to  be  reminded  of  Jane? 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Miss  Elphenstonne,  bearing  up 
in  what  Muriel  considered  rather  a  brazen  fashion, 
"how  nice!" 

"He  has  such  a  big  heart — "  began  Muriel. 

"And  such  a  big—"  interrupted  Mick,  in 
another  whisper. 

"Mick!" 

"I  was  only  going  to  say  head"  he  assured  her 
humbly;  "or,  at  the  worst,  waistcoat.  Miss 
Elphenstonne  would  not  allow  me  to  be  rude 
about  him." 

1 '  Hush— he  will  hear,' '  returned  Muriel.  "  I  'm 
going  to  wait  outside."  But  the  others  did  not 
take  that  hint  and  remained  where  they  were, 
looking  at  each  other  with  mirthful  eyes. 

"Consider  relations  as  a  recreation,  and  you 
overcome  one  of  the  adversities  of  life, "  whispered 
Mick.  "  I  say,  Elf,  if  we  stay  here  we  shall  be  low 
eavesdroppers,  and  see  and  hear  everything— the 
door  is  not  quite  shut  and— they  can't  see  us. 
What  do  you  say— as  Eve?" 

"Eve  .  .  .  Eve  listened,"  said  Miss  Elphen- 
stonne thoughtfully,  a  wicked  gleam  in  her  eyes. 


346  Vagabond  City 

"You  must  n't  call  my  rich  uncle,  the  Serpent. 
Now  mind  you  share  the  apple  with  Adam,  and 
take  all  the  blame  if  we  get  found  out, "  and  he 
squeezed  himself  up  against  her  on  the  window 
seat. 

"Well,  Mrs.  Hobbs,"  began  Mr.  Higgins  pomp- 
ously, "I  've  come  to  say  good-bye,  ha!  ha!" 

"You  're  very  welcome,  your  grice!"  said  Mrs. 
Hobbs,  dropping  a  deep  curtsey,  her  best  eye  on 
the  alert,  the  other  rolling  wildly.  "I  alwiys  did 
siy  as  I  knew  a  real  gent  when  I  seed  'im!"  She 
wiped  her  right  hand  rather  ostentatiously,  on  her 
apron. 

Mr.  Higgins  eyed  this  manoeuvre  uneasily.  He 
had  believed  Mrs.  Hobbs  to  have  a  soul  above  that 
sort  of  thing — but  had  any  of  them?  Were  n't 
they  all  harpies,  seeking  to  rend  from  a  rich,  hard- 
working man  the  fruit  of  his  toils?  Where  would 
he  have  been  now  if  he  had  been  "weak"?  Cer- 
tainly not  an  owner  of  five  hundred  thousand 
pounds  on  the  way  to  a  peerage!  But  stay,  per- 
haps he  did  her  an  injustice.  She  had  craved  the 
honour  of  a  handshake,  so  as  to  have  something 
to  boast  about  among  her  fellows.  He  extended 
his  hand,  and  Mrs.  Hobbs  held  it  thoughtfully,  an 
absent  look  in  her  eye ;  then  she  let  it  drop,  and  be- 
gan to  polish  her  own  hand  on  her  apron. 

"I  must  siy  as  it 's  a  treat  to  find  an  'igh  gent 
what  don't  tike  after  the  lord  what  I  lodged  for 
three  diys  once  to  oblige  a  friend  of  'is,  looked  all 
right  though  no  presence,  an'  beggin'  your  parding 


A  Ceremonious  Leave-Taking    347 

for  makin'  free,  but  I  'ave  always  admired  looks 
an  figger  hin  a  gent.  This  'ere  lord — but  of 
course  there 's  folk  as  is  a  disgrice  in  every 
profession — • — 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Higgins,  hastily  trying  to 
pass  Mrs.  Hobbs,  who  was  somehow  between  him 
and  the  door.  "Just  so." 

"He  came  and  'ad  the  impudence  to  offer  me  five 
shilluns,  an'  I  frowed  it  at  'im — none  of  your  hin- 
sults  here,  says  I!" 

"Dear,  dear,  not  quite  respectful,  Mrs.  Hobbs, 
I  fear.  But  of  course  you  were  right  in  principle, 
the  habit  of  tipping  is  obnoxious,  most  obnoxious 
and  no  superior  soul  expects  it — 

"Just  so,  your  grice!  Tippin'  no!  Of  course, 
an  'andsome  present — that 's  different,  and  a 
pleasure  to  real  'igh-placed  gents,  an'  a  pleasure  to 
be  accepted,  but  five  shilluns!  'None  of  your 
hinsults  here,'  says  I.  'I  '11  pocket  them,'  says 
he  grinnin'  foolish,  and  puts  the  five  shilluns  in  'is 
own  pocket — the  swine!" 

"Really,  Mrs.  Hobbs,  you  shock  me.  A  peer  of 
the  realm 

Mrs.  Hobbs  quite  misunderstood.  "I  don't 
wonder!  'E  shocked  me  too!  Somethink  cruel 
it  was!  But  of  course  'e  weren't  as  'igh  hup  as 
you,  and  never  wored  the  breeches  or  a  gold  chain 
or  nothink,  your  grice,  so  'e  'ad  'is  excuses  maybe, 
but  if  I  'd  knowed  the  sort  'e  was  when  I  mide  'im 
a  gime-pie  what  no  duke  would  turn  up  'is  nose  at, 
as  you  knowin',  'avin'  'ad  free  'elpin's  and  said  it 


348  Vagabond  City 

did  me  credit,  or  when  I  blacked  his 
boots,  I  'd- 

Mr.  Higgins  raised  an  admonishing  hand. 
"Hush,  Mrs.  Hobbs,  I  command  you.  You  must 
not  speak  of  your  betters  in  such  a  tone. " 

"Betters  is  as  betters  does,  your  grice, "  said 
Mrs.  Hobbs  humbly,  "as  well  you  knows.  Well, 
good-bye  your  lordship,  and  it 's  an  honour  to  have 
served  you,  if  only  to  a  gime-pie. "  And  she  held 
out  her  polished  hand. 

Alas,  that  even  the  great  have  their  weakness 
after  all!  Mr.  Higgins  left  a  sovereign  within  that 
skilful  palm,  and  none  seemed  less  surprised  than 
Mrs.  Hobbs.  She  seemed  indeed  quite  uncon- 
scious of  its  existence. 

When  Mr.  Higgins  got  outside,  he  found  every- 
body assembled  to  see  him  off,  and  wished  he  had 
his  carriage  and  pair  to  drive  him  away  in  real 
state.  He  would  have  preferred  that  Miss  Elphen- 
stonne,  failing  less  celestial  means  of  transit, 
should  catch  her  last  glimpses  of  him  behind  his 
expensive  grays. 

He  got  solemnly  into  the  trap,  shook  hands  all 
round  once  more,  and  smiled  on  poor  Susan. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said,  "take  care  of  yourself , 
my  dear  girl. " 

"  Good-bye, "  cried  the  valiant  spinster.  "  Give 
my  love  to  poor  Jane — I  hope  she  won't  feel  being 
torn  away  from  Manchester  too  much."  And 
without  waiting  for  a  reply,  she  fled  to  her  room, 
and  the  refuge  of  tears. 


A  Ceremonious  Leave-Taking    349 

All  the  way  to  the  station,  Mr.  Higgins  sat  silent, 
bearing  the  look  of  one  who  was  suffering  terribly 
for  the  sake  of  right,  and  smiled  while  the  fox  ate 
his  vitals. 

Mick  was  very  unkind  and  selfish,  for  he  knew 
the  great  man  wanted  him  to  ask  if  anything  was 
wrong,  but  he  was  suddenly  very  sick  of  his  bene- 
factor and  all  appertaining  to  him,  and  his  sole 
wish  was  to  see  him  borne  out  of  the  station.  The 
bad  little  boy  was  on  Totton  platform  though  with- 
out the  suet-pudding  mother  or  lean  father,  and 
his  face  lit  up  as  he  saw  Mick. 

"Hullo!"  he  cried,  sidling  up  to  him  while  Mr. 
Higgins  went  into  the  ticket  office.  "The  fat  old 
buster  that  turned  up  trumps  after  all;  but  I  Ve 
spent  that  half-crown.  It  does  seem  a  pity  measles 
are  keepin'  me  away  from  school,  and  I  'm  not 
travelling  up  just  yet.  Shall  I  thank  the  old 
blighter  for  the  half-crown?" 

"No,"  said  Mick,  "just  you  take  your  hook! 
That 's  the  last  sixpence  of  his  you  '11  ever  see! 
Now  git,  my  boy!"  And  the  boy  got! 

"That  little  horror!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Higgins,  as, 
returning  from  the  office,  he  had  a  vanishing 
glimpse  of  the  evil  child.  "He  's  not  goingup  too, 
is  he? "  He  was  red  with  anger  and  alarm. 

"Not  for  some  time  yet.  I'm  afraid  we're 
rather  early." 

"It   doesn't   matter,"   returned    Mr.   Higgir 
heavily.      "Trifles  are  nothing.  ..."     He  sub- 
sided, sighing  deeply,  on  to  the  seat. 


350  Vagabond  City 

Mick  made  no  remark. 

"  It  does  me  good  to  see  your  happiness,  my  dear 
fellow, "  said  Mr.  Higgins,  in  a  moved  voice. 

"I  am  so  glad." 

"I  was  young  myself  once." 

"And  not  so  very  long  ago,"  Mick  compelled 
himself  to  murmur. 

"Ah.  ..."  Mr.  Higgins  heaved  a  mighty 
sigh.  "The  heart  knoweth  its  own  bitterness. 
We  will  not  talk  about  the  present,  the  wound  is 
too  fresh,  but  if  that  were  all  ...  you  are  more 
fortunate  than  I.  .  .  ." 

Mick  looked  encouraging, — and  at  the  clock. 
Muriel  should  have  nothing  to  complain  of. 

"She  died  ..."  said  Uncle  William,  in  a 
whisper,  and  blew  his  nose  loudly. 

Mick  blew  his  louder;  several  people  looked 
round  with  a  violent  start. 

"...  Before  I  could  marry  her,"  added  Mr. 
Higgins,  with  awful  pathos.  "Fate  may  have 
meant  me  for  greatness  but  it  has  dealt  with  me 
cruelly  in  affairs  of  the  heart.  I  was  never  quite 
the  same  again:  one  is  n't!  And  she — so  near  her 
happiness!"  The  ready  moisture  rose  to  his 
suffused  eyes.  A  clever,  sympathetic  young  man, 
Muriel 's  husband!  One  could  talk  to  him  as  to 
an  equal. 

But  Mick,  looking  gravely  at  the  afflicted,  only 
thought  of  the  meal  the  grief-stricken  man  had 
eaten. 

"Her,    wedding    dress  ..."     the    speaker's 


A  Ceremonious  Leave-Taking    351 

voice  broke,  "was  buried  with  her.     It  was  my 
wish,  though  it  had  been  the  best  satin.  ..." 

Mick  blew  his  nose  so  violently  that  the  startled 
people  jumped  again. 

Uncle  William  beamed  upon  him.  "I  must  not 
depress  your  careless  joy  with  my  grief — a  hidden 
sorrow,  my  dear  boy,  a  hidden  sorrow !  That  and 
one  other,  you  may  have  guessed.  .  .  .  We 
endure;  the  world  knows  nothing  of  these  things, 
perhaps  even  cares  less. " 

"  I  should  n't  wonder, "  agreed  Mick.  He  won- 
dered how  many  of  Mr.  Higgins's  acquaintances 
had  escaped  the  confidence. 

"Then  I  buried  my  love,  my  grief,  and  married 
Jane — poor  Jane." 

"Poor  Jane!"  echoed  Mick  innocently. 
"I  have  bowed  my  head  to  my  cross,"  the 
speaker  breathed  heavily  through  his  nose.  "  Per- 
haps Jane  is  a  little  dense,  not  very  intelligent,  and 
far  from  beautiful,  and  I  have  looked  upon  the  real 
thing,  too  late,  but  she  manages  the  household 
well  and  her  ten  thousand  pounds  formed  the  nu- 
cleus of  my  fortune.  We  repine  in  our  blindness 
at  fate,  my  dear  fellow,  and  all  the  time  Provi- 
dence is  seeing  ahead,  and  purposes  to  bring  us 
consolation." 

He  was  moved  to  further  nose-blowing  at  his 
own  beautiful  eloquence. 

"Ten  thousand  consolations!"  muttered  Mick 
to  himself.  ' '  Poor  human  nature ! " 

"Muriel  has  been  talking  to  me  about  your 


352  Vagabond  City 

financial  successes.  Most  praiseworthy,  my  dear 
fellow,  most  praiseworthy !  There  's  nothing  like 
marriage  for  sharpening  one's  wits ;  marriage  makes 
or  mars  us." 

Mick  bowed  a  reverent  head  to  this  new  truth. 

Mr.  Higgins,  feeling  he  was  giving  the  young 
author  valuable  copy,  continued  in  the  same  vein. 
"And  sobers,  and  makes  decent  citizens  of  us  in- 
stead of  wild  bachelors  leading,  maybe,  an  irregu- 
lar life. "  He  looked  away  with  a  remorseful  sigh. 

Mick  tried  to  think  of  the  pompous  Uncle  Wil- 
liam leading  a  wild  or  irregular  life,  but  his  imagin- 
ation— vivid  as  it  was — failed  him.  He  waited, 
however,  for  the  cream  of  the  confidences.  "You 
must  of  course, "  he  agreed,  "put  aside  profligacy. " 

"Yes  indeed!"  cried  Mr.  Higgins  valiantly. 
Suddenly  he  preened  himself,  and  his  voice  sank. 
"I  know  only  too  well  what  I  am  talking  about," 
he  owned  with  great  reluctance.  "  I  was  a  gay  dog 
in  my  day — a  gay  dog!  There  are  times,"  he 
added  remorsefully,  "when  memory  burns,  and  I 
can  hardly  look  my  trusting  Jane  in  the  face." 

"What  a  loss  for  Jane!"  Mick  confided  to  his 
handkerchief. 

"And  the  poor  thing  adores  me.  A  sad  dog,  a 
sad  dog!"  he  continued  eagerly,  "but — she  was 
the  prettiest  girl  I  had  ever  seen,  and  the  best  of 
us  are  weak  before  beauty.  ..." 

"She"  had  been  his  mother's  little  maid-of -all- 
work,  and  perhaps  she  had  been  comely  enough — 
when  her  face  was  clean.  William  Higgins,  as  a 


A  Ceremonious  Leave-Taking    353 

soft  cub  of  eighteen,  had  kissed  her  more  than  once 
behind  the  kitchen  door — washing  his  face  after- 
wards to  allay  suspicion.  That  was  the  one  hide- 
ous memory  that  made  him  feel  deliciously  black  in 
his  innocent  wife's  eyes.  The  other  was  equally 
foolish — and  harmless — but  they  served  to  make 
him  feel  very  much  a  sinful  man  of  the  world  at 
times  like  these.  Mr.  Higgins  loved  to  wallow 
in  emotion — out  of  business  hours.  Inside  them 
he  was  found  rather  a  hard  nut  to  crack,  and  cer- 
tainly not  given  to  sentimental  consideration  for 
the  woes  of  others. 

Mick's  shrewd  mind  suspected  much  that  was 
left  unsaid.  "  Don't  tell  me  of  your  past  orgies, " 
he  begged.  "You  might  make  me  envious — and 
I  've  got  to  be  respectable  myself  now." 

"Ah,  but  you  can  rejoice  with  the  lover  of  your 
youth!"  said  the  poetical  Mr.  Higgins;  "can  live 
in  an  ideal  country  cottage  beyond  the  strife  of  the 
world  with  the  wife  of  your  heart— a  girl  so  hand- 
some, so  good,  so  charming,  that  all  who  see  her 
must  envy  you!  Marriage  halves  our  sorrows 
and  doubles  our  joys!  Never  forget  that,  old 
chap ! "  He  patted  Mick  paternally  on  the  shoul- 
der—really he  was  getting  fond  of  the  fellow— and, 
not  content  with  the  gift  of  the  cottage,  bestowed 
upon  him  original  brain  matter.  "  But  don't  you 
go  stealing  all  this  for  your  books  now!"  he  added 
shaking  an  arch  finger  at  him. 

The  young  man  gave  a  relieved  look  at 
incoming    train,    and    helped    his    wife's   uncle 

23 


354  Vagabond  City 

into  a  first-class  compartment  with  considerable 
alacrity. 

The  whistle  blew. 

"God  bless  you,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  the  ex- 
mayor  and  future  peer,  emotionally. 

"And  you,"  returned  Mick  politely,  shutting 
the  door  on  him. 

He  tramped  all  the  way  back,  thankful  to  be  rid 
of  Uncle  William  for  a  while.  He  might  be  amus- 
ing unconsciously,  but  one  could  have  too  much  of 
a  good  thing.  He  did  not  want  Mr.  Higgins,  he 
wanted  the  Elf. 

"Where  is  she?"  were  his  first  words  on  return. 

"If  you  mean  Miss  Elphenstonne  she  could  n't 
stay  to  tea  after  all, "  returned  Muriel  stiffly,  "and 
I  must  say  her  conduct  has  shocked  me  very  much. 
And,  oh  Mick,  what  shall  we  do !  Uncle  William  gave 
Mrs.  Hobbs  a  sovereign — just  fancy! — and  she  's 
gone  about  a  new  bonnet  and  getting  converted! 
And  poor  Aunt  Susan  is  awfully  upset  about  every- 
thing and  very  annoyed  that  you  have  n't  put  the 
brakes  of  her  bicycle  right.  She  says  she  could  be 
killed  a  dozen  times  for  all  you  'd  care.  Do  re- 
member to-night!" 

But  Mick  had  gone — to  seek  Miss  Elphenstonne. 


CHAPTER  XX 

TEMPEST  DRIVEN 

voices  shrieked  through  the  night,  and 
Mick  sat  up  listening  to  them,  exulting  in 
them.  All  the  demons  that  had  their  being  in  him 
— and  they  were  legion — woke  and  rejoiced  in  the 
riot  of  the  night.  Here  were  strife  and  passion  set 
free  at  last ;  here  was  license  unchecked,  uncon- 
trolled! 

Mick  who  had  been  sitting  by  the  fire  got  up 
suddenly  with  a  savage  laugh,  and  went  out  into 
the  tormented  forest. 

The  wind  rose  higher  and  yet  higher,  and  his 
spirit  rose  with  it,  it  broke  loose  to  travel  on  the 
wind  that  drove  many  a  ship  to  a  port  their  cap- 
tains little  recked  of.  Vagabondia  in  her  wildest 
mood  called  to  him  and  he  listened  with  heart 
triumphant.  Then  a  tree  crashed  suddenly  close 
to  him,  and  the  sound  of  it  brought  him  back  to 
realities  with  a  jerk. 

What  of  Miss  Elphenstonne  in  her  tent  ?  Would 
it  hold  ?  Was  there  one  chance  in  a  thousand  of  its 
holding?  He  knew  too  well  the  answer  to  that, 
and,  getting  his  bicycle  lamp  from  the  cottage  he 

355 


356  Vagabond  City 

dashed  to  the  tent — or  to  where  the  tent  should 
have  been  standing.  It  was  only  a  huddled  heap 
now. 

"Elf, "  he  shouted  in  terror,  and  the  wind  drove 
his  voice  across  the  moors.  "Where  are  you, 
Elf?" 

The  wind  laughed  mockingly  in  answer;  that 
was  all. 

"Elf?"  he  shouted  desperately  again,  feeling 
along  the  recumbent  canvas. 

"I  thought  you  were  never  coming,"  spoke  a 
smothered  voice  resentfully,  "the  beastly  thing  's 
tied  me  up  in  bed,  and  I  can't  move!  Thank 
goodness,  I  got  the  picture  off  yesterday." 

"Well,  you're  all  right  now!"  he  cried  with 
hoarse  relief,  and  set  to  work  to  disentangle  the 
hapless  artist.  At  last  he  had  released  her,  his 
face  white  with  thankfulness.  He  had  feared  a 
thousand  disasters;  even  death. 

"That 's  all  very  well,"  she  returned  in  a  cross 
voice,  "all  right  indeed!  Everything  is  blown 
away  or  broken,  neither  stick  nor  stone  left  stand- 
ing. The  looking-glass  is  smashed  to  bits,  and 
that  is  little  short  of  a  tragedy.  How  am  I  going 
to  do  my  hair?  And  I  have  n't  any  home — in  the 
middle  of  the  night!" 

She  shivered  under  the  blanket  he  was  holding 
round  her,  and  for  a  moment  he  thought  she  was 
going  to  cry;  then  she  changed  her  mind  and 
laughed  instead. 

"Of  course    it  's  really   a    huge    joke,"    she 


Tempest  Driven  357 

said,  "only    one's    sense  of    humour  wakes  up 
rather  slowly  in  such  circumstances!" 

"  I  was  afraid  the  wind  had  blown  you  back  to 
the  other  elves, "  he  replied,  trying  — not  very  suc- 
cessfully— to  speak  lightly. 

"What  a  good  thing  it 's  only  you!"  she  said, 
clutching  the  blanket.  "  I  have  n't  managed  to  get 
artistically  saved  at  all,  only  my  second  best  robe 
de  nuit — and  it  might  have  been  Uncle  William- 
think  of  his  disillusion !  Oh  dear !  it 's  cold."  Her 
teeth  began  to  chatter.  "Can  you  put  up  the 
little  tent  again,  do  you  think?  " 

"Impossible,"  he  replied  briefly.  "I'll  fix 
you  up  to-morrow  as  well  as  ever  if  the  storm  's 
over;  in  the  meanwhile  I  shall  carry  you  to  the 
cottage." 

"Carry  me!"  she  bit  her  lips.  "Don't  be  ab- 
surd, Mick,  I  can  walk!" 

"In  bare  feet!  You  won't  happen  to  get  the 
chance ! "  He  made  a  sudden  dart  at  her  and  held 
her  fiercely  against  him.  "  I  Ve  got  you  now ! "  he 
said,  with  hoarse  triumph. 

"Well,  be  quick!"  She  was  glad  he  could  not 
see  her  face,  nor  she  his,  for  he  had  to  hold  the  lan- 
tern to  light  the  dark  little  path  to  the  cottage. 
He  appeared  to  have  some  difficulty  in  rinding  it. 

"How  slow  you  are!"  she  frowned. 

"Elf  .  .  .   "he  drew  a  long  breath,  pulled  her 
head  closer  into  the  hollow  of  his  neck,  turned  his 
lips  to  the  sting  of  her  lashing  hair, 
is  n't  this  what  you  want  too,  just  you  and  me  to- 


358  Vagabond  City 

gether,  and  alone  with  the  wild  night,  for  ever,  for 
always!  Listen  to  the  voices.  You  and  I  have 
been  given  ears  to  hear  and  understand  all  the  un- 
chained forces  of  nature.  They  call  you  too.  You 
are  their  child  as  I  am,  Elf,  and  you  know  it! 
We've  got  to  follow  them — we  're  going  to  follow 
them.  They  mean  freedom,  love,  happiness,  and 
fame  for  you  if  you  wish  it.  I  only  want  you,  dar- 
ling. You  know  what  the  sea  will  look  like  to- 
night, a  road  without  earth's  road-dust,  your  road, 
my  road,  our  road!  Let 's  follow  it,  Elf,  and  take 
its  fortunes,  whatever  they  may  be.  We  will  be  to- 
gether; I  will  guard  you  as  the  dearest,  most  prec- 
ious thing  of  all  the  earth.  I  will  never  fail  you, 
Elf,  never,  so  help  me  God.  ..."  His  voice  broke. 

But  Miss  Elphenstonne  spoke,  after  a  little 
moment  of  silence,  calmly,  coldly,  most  matter-of- 
fact  :  "  Mick,  the  storm  has  made  you  mad — and  I 
don't  want  pneumonia,  Dr.  Byrne  said " 

"You're  in  love  with  him?"  he  flung  the 
accusation  recklessly. 

"I  'm  not  in  love  with  anybody,"  her  voice  was 
vehement. 

"Then  he  's  in  love  with  you " 

1 '  Nonsense !  Do  hurry,  Mick ! ' '  and,  for  all  the 
closeness  of  his  hold,  she  shivered. 

"Are  n't  you  comfortable?"  he  growled,  holding 
her  yet  closer. 

"No — I  am  half  suffocated!"  she  spoke  breath- 
lessly, struggling  in  his  grasp.  "Put  me  down 
Mick,  put  me  down,  do  you  hear!" 


Tempest  Driven  359 

"Oh,  here  's  the  cottage,"  he  said  gruffly. 

"Put  me  in  that  big  chair  then."  She  had  to 
speak  twice  before  he  most  unwillingly  obeyed. 

He  stood  looking  down  at  her  as  she  sat  wrapped 
in  her  blanket,  one  beautiful  bare  foot  just  show- 
ing, her  hair  almost  covering  her.  How  magnificent 
it  was!  How  it  had  lashed  his  face  in  the  storm, 
clung  to  his  lips !  He  could  feel  it  still.  He  turned 
for  a  moment  and  laid  his  face  down  on  his  arms. 
Let  her  go?  He  would  never  let  her  go ! 

She  was  horribly  strong  in  her  coldness  and  her 
pride,  but  he  and  love  should  prove  stronger. 

Then  her  teeth  chattered,  and  he  looked  up  to 
find  the  fire  going  out,  and  Miss  Elphenstonne 
most  deadly  cold. 

"I  '11  get  you  something  more  comfortable  than 
blankets,"  he  said  quietly,  "and  set  the  fire  going 
again.  You  poor,  wee,  perished  mite!" 

He  returned  with  his  own  dressing-gown  and  a 
pair  of  slippers.  Muriel's  would  have  been  a  good 
deal  too  large  for  the  visitor,  and  his  own  were 
merely  absurd,  yet  in  her  heart  the  girl  was  glad 
he  had  brought  nothing  belonging  to  the  other 
woman.  Then  her  eyes  dilated  suddenly.  What 
made  her  think  of  Muriel  as  "the  other  woman"? 
She  had  never  named  her  thus  before? 

She  sat  quite  lost  in  her  coverings,  and  watched 
Mick  as  he  knelt  down  to  coax  the  kitchen-fire 
into  a  blaze.  How  big  and  brown  and  strong  he 
was;  how  sure  of  himself;  how  eager  to  brave  fate! 
Mick  remembered  how  once— it  seemed  a  lifetime 


360  Vagabond  City 

ago  now — he  had  lit  the  fire  for  another  and  seen 
the  face  of  the  Elf  in  the  flames.  She  had  smiled 
at  him  then  out  of  the  glow ;  now  he  knew  he  would 
never  see  anything  else.  His  hand  shook  a  little 
as  he  arranged  the  coals,  and  a  very  tense  silence 
grew  in  the  rich  uncle's  cottage. 

Outside  the  wind  shouted  like  a  god  in  wrath: 
inside  two  hearts  beat  madly.  The  silence  length- 
ened, grew  unbearable,  and  desperately  at  last 
Miss  Elphenstonne  broke  it. 

"I — I  think  I  had  better  go,"  she  said  breath- 
less, something  akin  to  panic  in  her  voice. 

The  fire  was  alight  now,  blazing  merrily:  its 
flames  showed  Mick's  face  set  and  pale  as  he  knelt 
closer  to  her,  and  trembling  hands  sought  trem- 
bling hands.  "Go  where?"  he  asked,  speaking 
with  difficulty.  "There  is  nowhere  in  the  world 
you  could  go  to  escape  from  me,  you  know  that, 
Elf,  don't  you?"  His  hand  closed  like  a  vise  over 
hers. 

She  shrank  back  with  a  low  moan.  "  Let  me  go ! 
Upstairs,  anywhere  .  .  .!  " 

"To  Muriel?"  he  asked  grimly. 

"No — oh,  no.  Oh,  Mick,  remember  Muriel.  .  . ! " 
She  began  to  sob  like  a  frightened  child. 

His  arms  closed  round  her,  and  he  buried  his 
face  in  the  warm,  dark  hair.  "I  am  never  going 
to  remember  anybody  but  you,  Elf,"  he  said,  in  a 
stifled  tone.  "  I  am  going  back  to  the  old  wander 
wonder  trail,  and — you  are  coming  with  me." 

" She  shuddered  in  his  arms.     "No — no!     This 


Tempest  Driven  361 

is  madness — worse!  Oh,  what 's  happened  to  me, 
Mick,  what 's  happened  to  me?"  She  laid  her 
cheek  on  his  head  with  a  terrified  little  whimper. 

"Love — that's  all,"  he  returned,  "just  love, 
Elf.  It  had  to  come  some  day,  you  know.  Thank 
God  it 's  come  for  me!"  his  voice  rose  exultantly. 
"Nothing  else  matters." 

"Everything  else  matters!"  she  cried  despair- 
ingly .  ' '  Muriel,  my  work,  my  good  name — right ! ' ' 

"I  have  done  with  Muriel,"  he  answered,  be- 
tween set  teeth.  " '  A  rag  and  a  bone  and  a  hank 
of  hair, '  that 's  all  she  is.  Her  measure  is  too  small 
to  count — how  small,  only  one  who  has  lived  with 
her,  knows :  she  is  nothing,  has  nothing,  let  her  go ! 
Let  everything  go!" 

"Has  Muriel  done  with  you?  She  is  your  wife, 
nothing  can  alter  that!" 

"The  law  can  and  shall,  she  shall  divorce  me." 

She  shrank  in  horror.  "  That  would  be  horrible 
— horrible!  Unthinkable!  I  could  not  bear  it! 
And  Mick  .  .  .  have  you  done  with  honour?" 

She  tried  to  see  into  his  wild,  passionate  eyes. 

He  would  not  look  at  her,  but  he  stiffened  sud- 
denly. There  were  other  arms  thrusting  him  away 
from  the  woman  he  loved,  other  eyes— clear  blue 
eyes_saying>  "Thou  shalt  not."  Had  young 
Gore  died  for  this? 

He  writhed  as  a  man  tormented,  a  man  haunted 
beyond  endurance,  cursed  with  a  doom  more  cruel 
than  words;  but  he  did  not  loosen  his  hold. 

( '  What  is  honour  ?  "  he  asked.    ' '  An  empty  word, 


362  Vagabond  City 

a  shibboleth !  The  honour  of  one  is  the  dishonour 
of  another,  every  race  has  its  own,  every  class 
its  own  standard,  and  all  are  far  as  the  poles 
apart !  For  you  and  me  the  standard  is  different 
too:  we  are  strong  enough  to  make  it  what  we 
will.  Can  I  give  honour  to  Muriel,  the  wife  I  never 
wanted?  Can  I  bring  dishonour  to  you,  the 
woman  I  love  beyond  all  other  things  on  earth? 
Can  there  be  dishonour  in  a  love  as  strong  as  the 
grave?  To  love  enough  is  to  do  away  with  the 
lesser  things.  If  there  were  no  you,  I  should  still 
leave  Muriel;  that  has  been  certain  these  many 
months  past,  and  she  will  be  glad,  not  sorry. 
Come  with  me,  beloved,  make  what  terms  you 
will,  I  will  observe  them  faithfully ;  my  love  is 
the  best,  the  highest  part  of  me " 

"Oh,  Mick,  don't.  Have  pity!"  she  cried,  in 
a  tortured  voice. 

' '  You  doubt  me — I  can  see  it  in  your  eyes. ' '  He 
kissed  them  fiercely.  "You  fear  my  love,  think 
perhaps  it 's  just  a  passing,  physical  thing — and 
it 's  so  high,  so  pure,  so  holy,  it  scarce  can  seem  a 
part  of  me!  We  will  look  with  a  clear  faith  in 
each  other's  eyes  and  what  will  the  judgment  of 
the  world  matter?  Is  n't  it  usually  wrong?  You 
shall  be  just  my  cherished  friend,  my  fellow-vaga- 
bond, I  will  guard  you  as  a  sister — till  the  law  can 
make  you  my  wife !  Oh,  you  little  Philistine,  is  n't 
that  enough  ?  Let  people  say  and  think  what  they 
please,  put  the  usual  construction  on  our  flight — 
we  shall  be  above  and  beyond  '  people, '  you  and  I, 


Tempest  Driven  363 

and  blameless  even  in  the  eyes  of  the  Philistines' 
God.  Come,  my  princess,"  and  he  held  out  his 
arms  towards  her. 

But  Miss  Elphenstonne  beat  at  them  fiercely 
with  tiny  relentless  hands. 

"Let  me  go,"  she  cried  wildly,  "let  me  go!" 
He  only  drew  her  hands  against  his  lips.     "All 
the  rest  shall  go — but  not  just  this  one,  small, 
priceless  person!" 

"It  is  .  .  .  impossible." 

"It  is  not  only  possible,  but  easy,  the  easiest 
thing  in  the  world. " 

"Perhaps  that,"  she  answered  bitterly,  "since 
it  is  always  easy  to  choose  the  wrong,  and  the 
greater  the  wrong  the  easier,  I  suppose, "  she  ended 
with  a  shaky  little  laugh. 

"I  say  there  will  be  no  wrong.  Do  you  doubt 
me?  "  He  made  her  look  into  his  eyes,  which  were 
wild  no  longer,  but  burnt  with  a  steady  flame. 

"I  trust  you  absolutely,"  she  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands  for  a  moment,  "but,  oh,  my  dear, 
we  would  have  to  bear  the  blame  just  the  same ;  to 
be  innocent  in  my  own  heart  would  not  help  me 
much  when  the  world  flung  its  jibes  at  me!" 

"The  world!  What  world?  Is  there  a  world 
in  the  heart  of  the  desert?" 

"  My  poor  Mick,  there  is  always  a  world  for  evil- 
doers. Judgment  from  our  fellow-men  would 
await  us  at  the  Pole,  and  follow  us  throughout 
our  lives,  and  perhaps  ...  the  lives  of  others. 
A  man  may  have  performed  a  thousand  noble,  a 


364  Vagabond  City 

thousand  heroic  actions,  and  have  made  but  one 
tiny  slip,  but  it  is  that  slip  that  is  always  recalled, 
always  remembered,  in  connection  with  his  name. 
You  can  find  anything  more  easily  than  you  can 
find  Charity:  perhaps  the  world  cannot  afford  it. 
It  certainly  never  gives  the  benefit  of  the  doubt; 
we  should  be  branded  for  always." 

"Branded  by  the  verdict  of  fools,  of  cabbages, 
of  sickly,  bloodless  slaves!"  he  burst  out.  "How 
could  their  verdict  touch  you?" 

"It  would  drag  me  down, "  she  said  hopelessly. 

"In  a  year  or  so  people  would  forget  we  had 
gone  through  the  divorce  court ;  there  is  little  time 
for  long  memory  in  these  strenuous  days.  O, 
Elf,  just  you  and  me  .  .  .  and  some  day  our 
children !  I  will  learn  to  carry  a  Fat-Legs,  when 
he  's  yours." 

"Oh,  don't  !"  she  cried,  with  a  great  sob.  "It 
can  never  be,  never,  never!" 

"  It  shall  be, "  he  answered  confidently.  "  Dear 
comrade,  some  day  dear  wife,"  and  he  turned  to 
kiss  her  quivering  lips. 

She  clung  to  him  for  a  moment,  then  her  arms 
fell  away,  and  she  pushed  him  from  her  side, 
"Mick,  I  will  tell  you  the  truth.  I  have  not  told 
you  all  the  truth — why  it  can  never  be  .  .  ." 
her  voice  was  hoarse  and  broken. 

"£///" 

"It  is  true  that  I  care, "  she  said  with  difficulty. 
"  But  not  enough,  dear,  not  enough !  A  great  love 
would  do  what  you  ask ;  mine  is  not  great  enough. " 


Tempest  Driven  365 

"Not  great  enough, "  he  echoed,  and  rose  to  his 
feet,  his  face  very  dazed  and  blank.  "What  are 
you  saying,  Elf?  You  do  not  mean  it,  darling!" 

"I  mean  it,"  she  said  more  firmly.  "Oh,  I 
care  enough  to  many  you  honourably  if  I  could — 
people  need  scarcely  care  at  all  for  that, "  she  added 
bitterly,  "but  not  enough  for  great  sacrifices,  not 
enough  for — the  other.  I  cannot  pass  the  test. 
There  are  things  dearer  to  me  than  you,  my  ambi- 
tion, my  pride,  my  good  name.  I  cannot  put  them 
aside.  I  cannot,  I  cannot !  Perhaps  you  think  it 's 
just  a  question  of  ...  of  morality.  It  is  n't. 
It 's  only  a  question  of  ...  vanity.  I  have 
held  my  head  so  very  high,  so  much  higher  than 
other  women,  and  they  have  stood  aside  for  me  as 
if  it  were  my  right.  Perhaps  in  my  hateful  egoism  I 
thought  it  was.  So,  though  unworthy,  I  have  yet 
sat  on  a  throne,  been  envied,  courted,  admired — 
and  hated.  And  now  you  ask  me  to  step  down,  to 
put  myself  under  their  feet,  to  fling  myself  on  the 
mercy  of  jealous  women.  Jealousy  knows  not 
mercy.  '  How  are  the  mighty  fallen ! '  is  their  song 
of  victory,  their  battle  cry!  I  cannot  do  it,  Mick, 
I  ...  am  not  great  enough. " 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Miss  Elphenstonne 
dropped  her  shamed  face  in  her  hands,  sitting  very 
still,  looking  very  small.  The  light  flickered  on  her 
hair,  dwelling  lovingly  on  the  red  gleams  of  it, 
At  moments  she  was  bathed  in  flame. 

"I   see  .  .  ."   said  Mick  at  length,  with  drj  . 
lips.     "I  see.  ..." 


366  Vagabond  City 

The  crashing  of  fallen  trees  was  like  the  crashing 
of  his  own  world  which  lay  in  ruins. 

Yet  there  must  be,  should  be,  some  other  way. 
He  would  build  another  world,  create  a  new  heaven 
and  a  new  earth. 

"The  smallness  ..."  went  on  Miss  Elphen- 
stonne,  in  the  smallest  of  voices,  "is  ...  not 
only  physical."  Her  laugh  jarred.  "I  am  little, 
little,  all  through.  Even  for  love,  I  cannot  rise 
to  the  sublime  heights  of  self-sacrifice.  I  still  cling 
to  my  gods.  Only  my  art  is  great,  only  for  that 
would  I  be  dragged  through  the  mire,  endure  the 
world's  scorn.  I  am  not  worthy  of  any  man's 
heart  and  soul — least  of  all,  am  I  worthy  of  yours. 
It  is  better  to  be  great  and  evil,  than  little  and 
'good.'  Try  and  understand.  The  whispering 
tongues,  the  covert  glances  would  kill  me,  I  should 
die  of  them.  It  would  not  even  be  shame,  if  I 
cared  enough  there  would  be  no  shame;  but  I  do 
not,  and  my  art,  my  vanity,  is  more  to  me  than 
you.  I  am  little,  but  my  love  is  smaller  still,  too 
small  for  you. " 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her  trembling  hands, 
looking  down  at  her  very  pitifully,  feeling  the 
shamed,  piteous  eyes  like  the  wound  of  a  knife. 

"Yes,  my  dear,"  he  said  heavily.  "It  is  too 
small  and  weak  a  love,  too  easily  killed.  ..." 

"And  I  should  hate  to  injure  your  wife,  you  be- 
lieve that,  don't  you?  "  She  spoke  in  a  choked  voice. 

"  Of  course  I  believe  it.  But,  dear,  it  could  make 
no  difference  to  Muriel ;  I  am  going  anyway.  I ' ve 


Tempest  Driven  367 

planned  it  all  a  hundred  times.  It  is  not  impos- 
sible to  seem  dead,  it  is  not  impossible  to  let  there 
be  proofs.  She  thinks  I  am  going  abroad  for  a 
little  while,  but  she  will  only  be  glad  when  I  never 
return.  She  will  have  money  enough,  be  a '  widow ' 
with  an  income.  It  will  be  the  time  of  her  life. " 
He  kicked  viciously  at  the  sinking  fire.  "And  she 
can  make  a  more  congenial  marriage  without  any- 
one being  a  penny  the  worse,  since  the  '  dead '  will 
never  return  to  England.  I  shall  start  afresh,  a 
new  name,  a  new  world !  Elf,  if  she  marries,  will 
you  come  to  me  then?" 

"You  will  still  be  her  husband,"  she  answered 
inexorably. 

His  mouth  twisted.  "Fancy  the  respectable 
conventional  Muriel  with  two  husbands!"  he  ex- 
claimed, bursting  into  a  sudden  harsh  laugh. 
"Aunt  Susan  would  not  think  it  quite  'nice,*  I  'm 
sure." 

' '  I  cannot  face  it,  it  must  be  good-bye  now.  You 
were  right  when  you  said  I  was  just  foam  of  the  sea, 
as  light,  as  useless:  so — good-bye." 

He  took  no  notice  of  the  timid  outstretched 
hand,  and  she  withdrew  it  with  a  hot  blush,  her 
eyes  filling.  "  When  are  you  going?  "  she  ventured. 

"My  plans  will  be  complete  in  about  a  week." 

She  cowered  lower  in  the  big  chair.  "And  till 
then— shall  I  see  you  again?"  she  enquired,  in  a 
forlorn  voice. 

"Only  under  my  conditions,  not  yours," 
answered,  in  a  hard  voice.     "Yet  we  shall  meet, 


368  Vagabond  City 

for  you  will  find  your  love  stronger,  braver  than 
you  think,  and  will  come  and  tell  me  so!" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"You  shall  bring  me,  send  me — whichever  you 
please — a  lock  of  your  hair,  Elf;  I  shall  under- 
stand then." 

"It  will  never  be  cut  for  that  purpose,"  she 
answered  finally.  "So — it's  got  to  be  good-bye 
now,  Mick."  Her  lips  went  suddenly  dry.  How 
strong,  how  terrible  was  this  love  that  had  come 
upon  her  like  a  thief  in  the  night  and  yet — thank 
God — there  were  things  stronger! 

"Yes,  it 's  good-bye,"  he  said  quietly,  and  for  a 
moment  their  lips  clung  desperately  together. 
"  Good-bye,  and  all  the  best  of  life  for  you,  ever, 
always,  my  darling!" 

"Oh,  Mick — good-bye ! ' '  Her  eyes  were  piteous 
but  still  irrevocable  in  their  determination. 

He  held  her  for  a  space  longer,  burying  his  hag- 
gard face  in  her  splendid  hair.  "There  's  such  a 
lot  of  it,"  he  said  with  an  attempt  at  a  laugh, 
"that  I  'm  sure  you  '11  spare  a  little  lock  for  me  in 
the  end,  Elfkin.  You  were  never  a  greedy  Elf. " 

"But  I  am  greedy  now,"  she  answered,  slipping 
out  of  his  arms,  "greedy  for  fame  and  honour  and 
good  repute." 

"Yet  the  fate  of  empires  have  been  changed  in  a 
week, "  he  answered,  throwing  back  his  head ;  then 
he  went  out  into  the  night,  and  Miss  Elphenstonne 
sat  and  shivered  and  shuddered  and  wept  by  a 
dying  fire. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THAT  THING  CALLED  CHANCE 

There 's  no  such  thing  as  chance; 
And  what  to  us  seems  merest  accident, 
Springs  from  the  deepest  source  of  destiny." 

ON  the  following  day  Mick  spoke  to  Muriel 
about  his  plans.     "I  'm  going  abroad  next 
week,"  he  said  abruptly. 

"I  never  thought  you  meant  as  soon  as  that," 
she  exclaimed,  astonished.  "Why  have  you  made 
up  your  mind  so  suddenly?" 

"Circumstances  have  changed.  It  will  be  ad- 
visable to  go  as  soon  as  possible."  He  did  not 
look  at  her. 

"But  what  circumstances?"  demanded  the  be- 
wildered wife.  "  Oh,  Mick,  you  have  n't  gone  and 
lost  that  money?"  She  turned  very  pale. 

' '  I  have  not ;  quite  the  contrary.  I  promised  you 
five  hundred  a  year  to  do  as  you  pleased  with. 
Well,  it 's  there,  thanks  to  one  thing  and  another, 
and  certain  mining  magnates  who  put  me  in  on  the 
ground  floor.  It  is  settled  on  you,  I  shall  never 
claim  a  penny,  and  if  anything  should  happen  to 

me " 

24  369 


370  Vagabond  City 

She  shivered.  "Don't  be  dreadful,  Mick!"  she 
implored.  "  What  should  happen  to  you?  Nothing 
did  before,  and  during  those  ten  years  you  were 
in  all  sorts  of  places,  all  sorts  of  dangers.  But 
you  are  a  married  man  now,  and  must  be  careful. 
Besides,  I  don't  understand  at  all.  What  will 
you  gain  by  going  abroad?" 

"Fresh  experiences,  for  one  thing." 

"  Do  you  mean  for  your  books?  That  the  waste 
of  time  and  money  will  pay  you  in  the  end,  I 
mean?" 

"Experiences  always  pay  one " 

"As  an  author,  I  see.  Still,  it  seems  a  pity. 
You  could  make  money  in  England,  and  we  've  got 
plenty  to  start  on " 

"That  reminds  me,  you  can  leave  here  whenever 
you  like,  and  choose  a  house  and  furniture.  Miss 
Dalton  will  help  you.  Do  not  consider  me  in  any 
way.  All  places  will  be  the  same,  as  far  as  I  am 
concerned." 

"Will  you  be  away  long?"  She  was  puzzled, 
and  regretful  that  she  could  not  feel  unhappier 
at  the  prospect.  But  Mick  was  such  a  jarring 
element,  his  absence  could  only  mean  peace. 

He  pushed  back  a  blazing  coal  with  his  foot. 
"That  depends  on  many  things;  I  will  write." 

"Are  you  going  to  work  when  you  are  away, 
or  just  .  .  .  wander?"  she  asked,  with  sudden 
suspicion.  "You  must  not  let  a  dreadful  habit 
like  that  get  hold  of  you  now."  Her  mouth  shut 
ominously. 


That  Thing  Called  Chance       371 

"  Oh,  I  daresay  I  shall  work,"  he  said,  carelessly. 
"  I  shall  need  the  money — another  novel,  a  volume 
of  amusing  travels  perhaps." 

Her  face  cleared.  That  would,  she  knew,  mean 
more  money.  When  he  returned  to  add  his  in- 
come to  hers  they  would  be  much  better  off,  and 
all  the  time  he  would  be  writing  more  works,  add- 
ing more  sums  to  invested  capital.  He  might 
even  end  by  being  rich — for  an  author.  Uncle 
William  had  the  very  highest  opinion  of  his  abili- 
ties— and  undoubtedly  there  would  some  day  be 
Uncle  William's  money,  if  Mick  continued  to  blind 
that  gentleman  as  to  his  real  character.  If  there 
had  been  a  child,  or  the  prospect  of  a  child,  she 
would  have  been  a  very  happy,  triumphant 
woman  in  that  moment.  He  would  be  famous, 
make  of  her  a  personage,  but  there  would  still  be 
the  great  lack. 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  arm.  "  I  am  sorry  you 
will  have  to  be  away  so  long,  dear,"  she  said, 
gently.  "Take  care  of  yourself,  Mick.  Perhaps 
we  shall  come  to  understand  each  other  better  on 
your  return— and  I  will  have  the  house  really  nice 
for  you.  You  shall  be  proud  of  it ! " 

He  moved  to  attend  to  the  fire  and  her  hand  fell 
away.     His  face  had  flushed  slightly.    His  inten- 
tion remained  uuchanged,  but  he  did  not  like  to 
remind  himself  he  was  about  to  desert  the  woman 
he  had  sworn  to  cherish  all  his  life, 
planned  a  year  of  hard  work  at  his  profession, 
would  be  necessary  for  him  to  make  what  money 


372^  Vagabond  City 

he  could  and  transfer  it  to  his  new  identity  before 
he  ...  died,  if  he  was  one  day  to  become  respon- 
sible for  the  welfare  of  the  Elf,  and  he  preferred  to 
believe  it  would  yet  come  to  that.  If  he  desired  to 
continue  his  craft,  his  way  would  be  all  over  again 
to  make,  and  publishers  who  had  weclomed  Talbot, 
might  turn  up  their  noses  at,  say,  Brown,  till  they 
were  convinced  that  Brown,  though  a  newcomer, 
had  a  gift  that  might  prove  remunerative.  And 
that  would  take  time.  As  he  looked  gloomily  into 
the  fire,  he  wondered  how  his  ingenuity  was  going 
to  manage  his  own  death  and  proof  of  his  death. 
A  dead  vagrant  buried  in  his  name  and  clothes  .  .  . 
the  bearded  Brown  witness  of  his  death,  entrusted 
with  the  sending  home  of  papers  of  identification? 
Would  it  be  possible?  Easy  or  difficult  he  was 
determined  to  accomplish  the  result  by  some 
means  or  other.  The  impossible  should  become 
the  possible — the  credible. 

When  he  was  Brown,  had  a  beard  and  moustache, 
would  his  old  friends  be  puzzled  by  the  resemblance 
to  the  dead  man  they  had  known?  It  need  go  no 
further  than  a  chance  resemblance.  It  was  so 
easy  to  obliterate  oneself ;  he  would  not  be  the  first 
man  nor  the  last,  who  found  it  convenient  to  "  die  " 
to  his  people  and  his  home. 

Muriel  would  marry  again  and  in  the  end  he 
would  win  the  Elf!  He  stretched  out  his  arms 
and  heaved  a  long  deep  sigh.  Freedom  called 
from  over  the  sea,  and  soon  the  trammels  of 
civilisation  would  have  fallen  from  him. 


That  Thing  Called  Chance       373 

Muriel  had  come  down  to  find  no  trace  of  Miss 
Elphenstonne,  who,  soon  after  it  was  light,  had  re- 
turned to  her  tent — to  find  it  standing  firm  again. 
Mick  had  seen  to  that  as  soon  as  the  wind  died 
down,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears  at  this  sign  of 
his  thoughtfulness. 

During  that  last  week  Mick  was  frequently  at 
Southampton  making  his  arrangements,  and  two 
days  were  spent  in  London.  Of  Miss  Elphenstonne 
he  saw  nothing,  and  soon  he  must  pass  out  of  her 
life.  She  never  believed  he  would  keep  his  word, 
and  go  without  a  last  farewell.  That  would  be 
cruel,  and  Mick  was  never  cruel,  and  least  of  all  to 
her. 

What  leisure  Mick  had  was  given  to  the  final 
correction  of  the  Book  of  the  Elf,  with  which  he 
came  near  to  being  satisfied.  Yet  there  was  bitter- 
ness in  it  too.  Its  writing  had  meant  the  happiest 
hours  of  his  life  in  close  companionship  with  the 
woman  he  loved,  and  was  leaving,  for  many  a  long 
day,  if  not  for  ever. 

"If  anything  happened  to  Muriel  ..."  He 
thrust  aside  the  horrible  thought.  Not  by  that 
path— heaven,  love  itself,  forbade!  Yet  for  the 
other  her  pride  was  too  fierce,  her  love  too  frail. 

Muriel  wondered  that  he  found  no  time  to  visit 
his  friend,  but  it  never  occurred  to  her  that  they  had 
quarrelled;  she  merely  decided  that  the  friendship 
was  not  as  strong  as  she  had  supposed,  and  that 
Mick  was  "queer"  even  in  the  matter  of  friend- 
ship. 


374  Vagabond  City 

"Before  you  go,  there  are  two  things  I  specially 
want  you  to  do  for  me,"  she  said.  "Put  Aunt 
Susan's  bicycle  right,  and  write  to  Uncle  William. " 

"  My  dear  girl,  I  have  n't  a  minute  ;  there  is  no 
time." 

"You  could  find  time  if  you  really  wished, "  she 
returned. 

"Oh,  very  well  .  .  .  what's  the  old  buffer's 
address?  What  am  I  to  say?" 

"  Oh,  just  a  nice,  friendly  letter  to  say  good-bye." 

Mick  scrawled  a  hasty  line  to  that  effect,  and 
then,  making  the  excuse  of  posting  it  in  time  for  the 
collection,  went  for  a  long  ramble  in  the  woods. 

It  was  October,  and  the  forest  was  flaming  in 
purple  and  gold,  but  its  beauty  did  not  soothe  his 
tempestuous  spirit.  Barely  a  year  since  he  had 
come!  It  was  incredible — it  seemed  a  lifetime! 
In  a  few  days  at  the  latest  he  would  be  on  an  out- 
ward-bound steamer,  the  wind  singing  in  his  ears 
as  it  never  sang  on  shore.  Half  of  him  would  thrill 
exultantly  to  the  sound  of  it,  but  the  other  half  of 
his  being  would  be  desolate  for  want  of  the  Elf  to 
share  the  joy.  Yet  he  would  sooner  expect  to 
find  trees  "  like  men  walking  "  than  the  Elf  to  lower 
her  deadly  pride.  From  Bramble  Hill  he  gazed  on 
a  sight  to  delight  the  most  jaded,  but  it  found  no 
favour  in  his  sight,  the  glory  blazed  in  vain  for  him, 
and  he  came  slowly  back  towards  the  cottage  by 
way  of  the  moors. 

He  made  a  long  detour,  returning  by  the  Salis- 
bury road,  and  his  keen  eyes  distinguished  the 


That  Thing  Called  Chance       375 

home  he  was  leaving  before  it  would  have  been 
visible  to  most.  As  he  looked  towards  it  he  was 
thankful  to  remember  that  his  part  in  it  was  almost 
done.  He  screwed  up  his  eyes,  shaded  them  with 
his  hand,  for  he  thought  he  saw  someone  come  out 
of  the  cottage.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  figure, 
whoever  it  was,  was  wheeling  out  a  bicycle,  pre- 
paratory to  mounting,  and  a  flash  of  annoyance 
seized  him  as  he  decided  that  it  was  Muriel 
coming  to  look  for  him.  He  was  in  no  mood  for 
Muriel.  He  quickened  his  pace,  and  going  along 
with  great,  swinging  strides,  got  a  distant  view  of 
the  steep  hill  leading  from  the  cottage,  and  saw  one 
tiny  speck.  Then  something  — he  had  an  idea  it 
must  be  Esmerelda — got  in  the  way  of  the  cyclist 
who  dashed  down  the  hill  at  a  terrific  pace  straight 
for  the  wall  and  the  heap  of  stones  that  lay  beyond 
the  turn  of  the  wood  and  Mick's  vision. 

He  uttered  an  exclamation,  and  began  to  run 
towards  the  scene  of  what  he  felt  could  only  be 
serious  disaster.  Would  she  pass  in  safety?  And 
even  as  he  ran,  he  grew  suddenly  afraid,  clammily 
cold.  There  was  a  sense  as  of  tragedy  in  the  air; 
of  something  worse  than  tragedy,  for  he  knew 
Muriel  had  met  with  her  death,  and  that  ...  he 
was  glad!  He  hated  himself,  strove  to  push  the 
unspeakable  thing  from  him,  but  a  voice  ringing  in 
his  ears  drowned  all  other  voices.  "The  way  is 
clear!"  it  whispered.  "The  way  is  clear!  You 
need  not  go  back  alone  now!" 

And  yet,  and  yet  .  .  .!    Muriel  had  managed 


376  Vagabond  City 

that  hill  a  thousand  times.  It  was  not  like  her  to 
lose  her  head ;  why  had  she  not  applied  the  brake 
at  once?  The  brake!  He  caught  his  breath, 
Muriel  had  lent  her  own  bicycle  to  Miss  Dalton, 
who  was  going  into  Southampton,  and  herself,  as 
the  better  rider,  had  taken  the  one  with  the  jammed 
brakes.  She  had  been  a  fearless  rider  from  a 
child,  unusually  skilful,  a  brakeless  bicycle  held 
no  terrors  for  her,  and  neither  need  it  have  done 
so — if  it  had  not  been  for  Esmerelda. 

He  put  his  hand  over  his  eyes  and  shuddered. 
A  dog,  a  horse,  a  man!  Now  a  woman's  death  lay 
at  his  door — for  something  told  him  she  was  dead. 

That  ancient  vagabond,  and  his  evil  tale  of  fool- 
ish, idle  superstition !  Was  it  no  idle  superstition 
after  all?  Were  such  curses  laid  on  mankind? 
Yet,  the  dog  had  been  infinitely  more  to  him  than 
Muriel.  He  tried  to  think  of  the  horror  of  the 
accident,  to  crush  down  the  struggling  relief,  but 
all  the  time  the  voice  sang  on,  "The  way  is  clear  at 
last!  You  can  take  her  in  all  honour!"  Oh,  if 
man  might  be  stronger  than  his  vilest  self !  Muriel, 
killed  in  an  accident  indirectly  of  his  doing !  Muriel , 
motionless  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  never  to  rise 
again !  Muriel,  so  keen  to  grasp  what  she  held  of 
the  sweets  of  life ! 

The  orderly  Muriel  with  her  head  lying  in  the 
dust — it  seemed  almost  an  indecency! 

If  only  he  had  remembered  the  brake,  been 
conscience-clear ! 

Because  Muriel  had  asked  him,  he  had  forgotten 


That  Thing  Called  Chance       377 

easily,  but  if  it  had  been  for  the  Elf,  there  would 
have  been  no  need  to  remind  him!  He  did  not 
like  to  think  of  that  now. 

Any  time — no  time — was  good  enough  for  the 
woman  he  had  married — and  killed.  If  only  he 
had  known  it  was  to  prove  her  last  request!  He 
could  not  go  and  see  what  lay  against  that  great 
heap  of  stone ;  there  were  people  running — a  great 
confusion.  .  .  . 

He  sat  down  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 
They  would  see  him,  come  and  tell  him;  he  was  too 
great  a  coward  to  face  his  own  work.  And  yet? 
Suppose  she  was  not  dead,  just  maimed?  He 
could  not  leave  her  then;  he  could  never  leave 
her!  The  sweat  ran  down  into  his  eyes.  How 
long  they  were  in  coming,  the  people  who  hid 
that  huddled  thing  from  him,  but  they  were 
coming  now,  and  by  the  rich  uncle's  cottage  he 
sat  and  waited  .  .  . 

His  head  fell  forward;  how  was  he  to  face  the 
accusation  in  the  dead  eyes!  She  would  know  .  . 
now.  And  if  she  was  not  dead ! 

He  heard  them  bringing  her  up  the  hill,  recog- 
nised Harrison's  slow,  heavy  tramp,  and  he  pressed 
his  eyes  fiercely  into  the  palms  of  his  hands.  He 
would  not  look  upon  that  sight,  lest  in  after  years 
it  came  between  him  and  the  Elf,  and  he  would 
have  to  remember  through  what  means  he  had 
come  to  his  desire. 

A  bloody  road  to  happiness,  a  red  river  to  free- 
dom!—and  yet  he  would  unhesitatingly  walk 


378  Vagabond  City 

therein,  as  he  would  have  gone  to  her  through  fire 
and  flood.  It  was  the  inevitable,  irrevocable 
thing. 

The  tramp  of  the  marching  feet  was  very  close 
now — dumb  men  walking  heavily  as  in  a  dream. 
Yet  for  all  their  dumbness  they  were  calling  some- 
thing, calling  him  by  his  name — "Murderer! 
Murderer!  Murderer!"  How  loud  it  sounded 
in  that  deathly  silence! 

A  woman's  skirt  swished  over  the  grass  towards 
him — a  stranger's  he  stupidly  supposed,  for  he 
always  knew  when  the  Elf  was  coming,  and  this 
was  a  sound  that  left  him  cold. 

Then  a  voice,  shrill  and  tearful,  pierced  into 
his  brain. 

"O  Mick!  .  .  .  and  I  asked  you  three  times 
about  the  brake!  Mrs.  Hobbs  was  alone  down- 
stairs, and  did  n't  know  .  .  .  she  borrowed  it  to 
meet  you,  and — Esmerelda,  poor  dear,  got  in  the 
way!  I  saw  it  all  from  upstairs,  but  it  was  too 
late.  ...  If  only  you  had  done  what  I  asked,  for 
once!  But  you  have  killed  her!  She  is  ... 
literally  .  .  .  broken  to  pieces  .  .  .!"  The  voice 
fled  sobbing. 

And  it  was  the  Elf's  dead  body  they  carried  past. 

Mick  fell  forward  on  his  face,  and  in  that  mo- 
ment there  died  for  ever  all  higher  ideals,  all  pos- 
sibilities of  greatness,  of  peace,  of  happiness.  For 
once  the  little  "great  Miss  Elphenstonne "  passed 
on  her  way,  and  the  man  who  loved  her  lifted  no 
head  in  greeting.  The  light  that  had  rejoiced  to 


That  Thing  Called  Chance       379 

play  upon  her  hair  came  out  of  the  West  to  smile 
down  upon  it  now,  to  turn  it  red  as  the  flames  had 
reddened  it  that  night  of  the  storm — but  it  was  a 
red  that  dripped  slowly  ...  It  lay  upon  her 
clothes  too,  but  most  mercifully  had  spared  her 
face,  where  death  sat  strangely,  incongruously, 
almost  mockingly.  The  eyebrows  were  slightly 
raised  as  if  in  surprise,  only  a  dark  gleam  showed 
through  the  thickly-fringed  lids,  and  the  lips  were 
very  cold  and  proud  and  scornful.  One  gem- 
decked  hand  hung  down,  its  fingers  clenched  upon 
some  object  jealously  guarded  even  in  death  !- 
though  the  arm  was  broken.  And  so,  ungreeted 
of  her  lover,  ungreeting,  she  passed  on  her 
way. 


CHAPTER  XXH 
"ET  PUTS,  BON  SOIR!" 

"  So  my  proud  soul,  so  you  whose  shining  force 

Had  galloped  with  me  to  eternity, 
Stand  now,  appealing  Eke  a  tired  horse, 
Unharness  me !" 

FRANCES  CORXFORD. 

MICK  got  up  and  found  himself  walking  for- 
ward, where  or  why,  he  neither  knew  nor 
cared.  He  merely  followed  some  blind  impulse. 
He  did  not  know  that  it  was  very  late,  when,  his 
face  very  grey  and  old,  he  groped  his  way  mechan- 
icafly  into  the  cottage. 

If  there  were  light  and  warmth  inside  he  was  un- 
conscious of  it;  even  Esmerelda,  smeared  with  ill- 
got  gains,  did  not  make  him  laugh.  He  only  stared 
round,  looking  very  stupid,  and  the  two  women 
who  had  been  threshing  out  the  subject  of  the 
tragedy  for  hours,  looked  at  each  other  meaningly. 
They  had  expected  him  to  be  upset,  were  going  to 
be  kind,  but  he  only  seemed  indifferent. 

"At  last!"  cried  Muriel,  bustling  forward,  and 
speaking  nervously.  "I  thought  you  were  lost! 


"EtPuis,  BonSoir!"  381 

You  must  be  very  tired  and  hungry.  ...  I  'm  so 
sorry,  but  Mrs.  Hobbs  found  your  whisky  and 
Esmerelda  ate  your  supper  when  we  left  it  before 
the  fire  to  keep  hot.  .  .  ." 

"  It  does  not  matter, "  he  said  quietly,  coming  in 
and  shutting  the  door — "it  does  not  matter  in  the 
least,  Muriel,  thank  you,"  and  he  sat  down  in  the 
chair  the  Elf  had  crouched  in  the  night  of  the 
storm,  and  nodded  a  greeting  to  the  gay  face 
smiling  elfinly  out  of  the  flames. 

Again  the  two  women  looked  at  each  other. 
Did  he,  or  did  he  not,  care?  He  looked  quite  con- 
tented, quite  happy;  he  was  even  smiling. 

Miss  Dalton  cleared  her  throat.  "I  wired  to 
Lord  Elphenstonne,"  she  announced.  "I  thought 
it  only  right  under  the  circumstances.  This  is 
his  reply."  She  spread  a  telegram  before  Mick, 
who  read  mechanically :  "  Am  grieved  at  sad  tragedy 
to  niece.  Regret  owing  chill  cannot  be  present  at 
funeral  and  son  is  abroad;  if  necessary  will  send 
agent  as  representative.  Wire  reply." 

"We  did  n't  see  why  the  agent  should  come," 
said  Miss  Dalton,  scornfully,  "and,  as  you  were  n't 
to  be  found,  we  wired  a  negative.  I  suppose, 
however,  Lord  Elphenstonne  will  be  responsible 
for  all  expenses  in  connection  with  the  funeral?" 

"What  funeral?"  asked  Mick,  staring. 

"  Of  course  there  will  have  to  be  a  funeral, "  said 
Muriel,  a  little  impatiently.    That  Mick  should  \ 
wool-gathering  at  such  a  time  as  this!    And  the 
friend  he  had  professed  to  think  so  much  of  hying 


382  Vagabond  City 

dead !  His  heartlessness  was  awful;  it  shocked  her 
to  the  utmost  depths  of  her  being. 

"I  also  wired  to  Uncle  William,"  she  said.  "I 
thought  he  had  better  know.  He  would  be  sure  to 
see  it  in  the  papers."  She  crushed  down  a  con- 
viction that,  after  all,  it  might  be  for  the  best. 
Uncle  William  had  showed  himself  to  be  made  of 
very  human  clay  where  the  artist  was  concerned. 
It  was  not  nice  to  think  of  him  bereft  of  dignity; 
now  he  could  regain  it,  return  to  his  pedestal. 

Miss  Dalton,  too,  had  thoughts  she  did  not 
utter.  It  scarcely  seemed  seemly  that  a  lady 
should  be  killed  in  such  a  fashion,  just  like  a  com- 
mon person  through  a  bicycle  and  a  pig!  If  she 
had  been  really  "nice, "  that  sort  of  thing  would  n't 
have  happened.  Yet  of  course  it  was  all  for  the 
best  since  Heaven  had  decreed  it.  After  all,  the 
artist  had  no  husband  to  mourn  her  loss,  and 
seemed  very  much  alone  in  the  world ;  she  would 
not  make  the  blank  a  young  wife  like  Muriel  would 
have  made.  That  would  have  been  sad  indeed — 
too  terrible! 

Mrs.  Hobbs,  lachrymose  with  whisky,  came 
from  the  tent  where  she  had  helped  to  perform  the 
last  offices  for  the  dead,  and  wept  when  Mick 
alluded  to  the  tragedy. 

"Did  Miss  Elphenstonne  leave  any  message  for 
me  when  she  called?  "  he  demanded  unemotionally. 

Mrs.  Hobbs  was  shocked  at  his  callousness. 
"It 's  out  of  sight,  out  of  mind,  with  the  likes  o* 
them ! ' '  she  said  to  herself.  ' '  Ho  yus ! ' ' 


"Et  Puis,  Bon  Soir!"  383 

"She  left  no  message, "  she  said  severely,  on  the 
question  being  repeated.  ' '  She  wanted  to  see  you 
very  special  that  was  all,  and  said  she  'd  borrow  the 
bicycle  and  have  a  look  for  you  'erself — I  never 
knewed  anythink  was  wrong  with  the  ole  bike.  I 
hope  the  Lord  will  'ave  mercy  on  her  soul,'  I  'm 
sure, "  she  added,  with  a  sob,  "but  I  don't  see  W 
he  can.  It  would  n't  be  fair  to  them  as  has  lived 
decent. "  She  was  no  optimist  on  the  matter  of 
the  eternal  welfare  of  Miss  Elphenstonne. 

"I  '11  tell  her  that,"  said  Mick,  standing  up. 
"  It  will  amuse  her. " 

"Eh?"  said  Mrs.  Hobbs,  staring,  dazed. 

"I  always  tell  her  things;  we  laugh  over  them 
together,"  said  Mick,  his  eyes  very  bright. 

"Young  feller,  you  're  drunk!"  said  the  shocked 
Mrs.  Hobbs.  "An'  at  sich  a  time!  Well  journal- 
ists always  did  tike  the  kike  and  alwiys  will,  that 's 
certain!" 

Mick  laughed,  and  passed  out  of  the  cottage, 
and  the  three  women  stared  after  him  in  dumb- 
founded terror.  To  laugh  at  such  a  time! 

Mick  wandered  foolishly  in  the  forest,  his  mind 
in  confusion.  There  was  something  he  was  trying 
to  remember — but  could  not  remember.  When  it 
grew  light  he  made  his  way  to  the  tent,  and  paused 
inside  the  larger  room,  listening  intently,  waiting 
for  her  voice  to  sound  from  the  inner  one.  The 
Book  of  the  Elf  lay  ready  for  the  publisher  on  a 
table,  and  he  picked  it  up  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 
Of  course  that  was  what  he  had  come  for. 


384  Vagabond  City 

Then  all  of  a  sudden  he  remembered,  and  stag- 
gered forward  to  look  his  last  upon  the  small  dark 
face.  It  lay  shadowed  in  her  hair — alive  in  spite 
of  death. 

The  lips,  no  longer  cold  and  proud,  smiled  ten- 
derly, humorously.  A  secret  gleamed  whimsi- 
cally between  the  fringed  lids — she  had  not 
been  wont  to  keep  secrets  from  him.  It  hurt 
unbearably  that  she  should  do  so  now. 

If  the  face  seemed  alive  neither  was  there  death 
in  the  hair;  the  wind  still  thrilled  in  it,  and  it  was 
warm  and  clinging  to  the  touch.  He  looked  down 
at  his  hands  and  remembered;  they  were  full  of 
leaves.  He  had  promised  her  a  laurel  crown,  and 
he  wound  it  round  the  small  head,  while  she  seemed 
to  smile  elfishly  up  at  him.  Maybe  she  under- 
stood, maybe  she,  too,  enjoyed  the  jest — and  at 
least  it  was  a  crown  well  won! 

Then  last  of  all,  he  took  out  his  book — their 
book.  In  parts  it  was  very  great,  very  wonderful 
— but  only  because  she  had  made  it  so.  It  repre- 
sented all  he  might  ever  know  of  high  endeavour, 
of  that  thing  called  fame. 

He  tried  to  place  it  between  the  tiny  fingers. 
She  had  cared  so  very  much  for  it,  but  now 
it  seemed  she  cared  no  longer,  her  fingers  were 
so  very  indifferent.  They  did  not  value  his  last 
gift,  his  life-work.  There  was  something  they 
valued  infinitely  more,  something  they  guarded 
with  fierce  clenched  pride. 

What  was  she  taking  with  her  to  the  grave? 


"  Et  Puis,  Bon  Soir!"  385 

What  did  she  hold  so  precious  that  she  kept  it 
secret  even  in  death?  Was  it — the  keepsake  of 
another  man?  He  thought  of  Byrne;  he,  too,  had 
loved  her,  and  as  he  thought  of  his  rival,  the  flap 
of  the  tent  was  lifted,  and  the  doctor,  haggard  and 
stooping,  stood  before  him. 

The  eyes  of  the  two  men  met,  and  undying  hat- 
red leapt  into  being  between  them.  In  the  face  of 
primitive  death  they  flung  aside  convention. 

"  Go ! "  said  Mick.     "  You  have  no  right  here. " 

But  the  brown  doctor  faced  him  steadily,  the 
flame  had  gone  from  his  eyes,  and  his  face  was  in- 
finitely sad.  "I  have  the  right  ...  of  one  who 
loved  her,"  he  said. 

"You  fool!  Many  have  loved  her,  been  of  no 
account  to  her,  but  none  loved  her  as  I,  or  won 
her  as  I  won  her.  ..." 

"I  at  least  would  never  have  loved  her  to  her 
hurt,"  said  the  elder  man  very  bitterly,  passing 
from  the  tent. 

Then  Mick,  his  face  flooded  with  darkness, 
turned  to  that  other,  and  strove  to  see  what  she 
guarded  so  long  and  well. 

Mercilessly  he  bent  back  the  stiff,  insistent 
fingers,  and  took  from  her  the  thing  she  cherished. 
"I  '11  give  it  back,  Elf,  I  '11  give  it  back!"  he  said 
huskily.  "Only  ...  I  Ve  got  to  know." 

Then  he  opened  the  small  sealed  packet,  read 
his  own  name  upon  it,  looked  down  upon  a  tress 
of  thick,  dark  hair. 

So  ...  she  had  given  her  pride  at  the  last! 


386  Vagabond  City 

He  placed  the  dead  woman's  gift  in  his  breast, 
and  sank  forward  with  his  head  against  the  knees 
the  stones  had  broken  so  ruthlessly. 

Too  late!  Too  late!  Too  late!  And  with  a 
great  and  exceeding  bitter  cry,  he  sank  senseless 
to  the  ground. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
"DIE  WANDERLUST" 

"A  wet  road,  heaving,  shining, 
And  wild  with  seagulls'  cries, 
A  mad  salt  sea-wind  blowing, 
The  salt  spray  in  my  eyes. 
My  road  calls  me,  lures  me, 
West,  east,  south,  and  north; 
Most  roads  lead  men  homewards, 
My  road  leads  me  forth.     .     .     . "  • 
Roadways — JOHN  MASEFIELD. 

"  T  SUPPOSE  Lord  Elphenstonne  has  come?  Has 

1  the  Comtesse  de  MalmMy  sent  any  repre- 
sentative?" were  the  first  words  of  Mr.  Higgins, 
as  he  grasped  Mick's  hand,  and  blew  his  nose. 

"No." 

"But  my  dear  fellow,  who  is  to  be  chief  mourner? 
Of  course  I  shall  only  be  too  proud,  and  God  knows 
there  is  every  reason  why  I  have  a  right.  ..." 
He  got  out  his  handkerchief  again. 

"There  will  be  just  you  and  me  and  the  doctor, " 
said  Mick,  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone. 

Mr.  Higgins  was  genuinely  upset,  yet  he  could 
not  but  feel  that  had  he  been  permitted  to  mingle 

387 


388  Vagabond  City 

his  tears  with  the  tears  of  Lord  Elphenstonne,  and 
support  the  grief -stricken  form  of  the  Comtesse  de 
Malmedy(who  happened  to  be  in  Russia),  he  could 
have  done  himself,  and  the  dead  girl,  more  justice. 

"In  the  midst  of  life  we  are  in  death!"  he  said 
suddenly. 

Mick,  his  smile  very  cynical,  nodded  in  agree- 
ment. "I  think  they — the  clergymen — read  the 
service,"  he  said.  "Shall  we  start  for  the — the 
tent?" 

For  Mick  was  insistent  that  the  funeral  cortege 
should  start  from  the  tent,  to  the  further  dismay 
of  Miss  Dalton.  Really,  a  funeral  from  a  tent 
was  scarcely  reverent,  scarcely  respectable!  And 
Mick  might  show  a  little  more  grief!  There  was 
William  already  quite  overcome — the  great- 
hearted, great  man! 

"  What  a  dreadful  day  it  is  to  be  sure ! "  lamented 
Mr.  Higgins.  "Fortunately  I  brought  an  extra 
coat,  and  an  umbrella,  and  have  on  a  thick  Jaeger 
vest." 

For  there  were  wind  and  storm  for  Miss  Elphen- 
stonne's  burial  day,  as,  with  the  wreath  of  fame 
round  the  proud,  dead  brow,  the  Book  of  the  Elf  be- 
tween the  tiny,  chill  fingers,  and  the  key  of  a  man's 
life  and  soul  in  her  keeping,  she  passed  to  the  grave 
she  had  feared  so  unreasonably. 

They  had  disturbed  no  poppies  to  dig  that  grave ; 
their  gay  little  life  was  over,  dead  before  maturity, 
and  yet  as  he  stood  there  in  the  rain  and  the  storm, 
Mick  knew  that  never  a  wind  would  blow  but  he 


"Die  Wanderlust"  389 

would  see  their  scarlet  petticoats  dancing  un- 
heedingly  on  the  Elf's  grave,  and  remember  they 
were  holding  revelry  over  a  broken  body,  broken 
life,  and  high  ambition  unfulfilled. 

"Be  sure  not  to  catch  cold, ' '  returned  Mick.  ' '  I 
think  .  .  .  everybody  is  ready." 

The  little  cortege  started,  walking  slowly  through 
the  glory  of  the  October  forest. 

They  came  to  the  spot  where  when  Muriel  and 
he  had  passed  for  the  first  time,  he  had  heard  the 
rain  falling  on  a  coffin.  He  heard  it  again  now. 
That  thing,  too,  had  come  to  pass.  Then  there 
had  been  nothing  tangible ;  only  a  swift  vision ;  now 
he  helped  to  bear  a  coffin  up  the  steep  little  steps. 
Yet  the  vision  had  been  the  more  real  of  the  two. 
Nothing  was  in  the  least  real  now:  he  drifted  from 
dream  to  dream.  .  .  . 

Life  seemed  determined  to  make  him  suffer,  to 
grind  him  very  small,  but  you  cannot  make  the 
dead  suffer,  and  he  chuckled  to  think  how  he  had 
got  the  best  of  life  after  all.  Mr.  Higgins  was 
weeping  in  a  rather  disgusting,  noisy  fashion,  wal- 
lowing in  his  grief.  He  was  as  ridiculous — as  un- 
consciously humorous — as  ever.  Nobody  would 
have  enjoyed  his  attitude  more  than  the  Elf 
herself. 

Why  should  Mr.  Higgins  be  permitted  to  feel 
and  not  he?  It  was  horrible  that  he  could  not 
grieve  for  the  Elf;  that  the  boon  of  suffering  was 
not  to  be  his;  that  he  should  become  atrophied 
at  such  a  moment. 


390  Vagabond  City 

The  service  proceeded,  and  Mr.  Higgins  fulfilled 
the  function  of  chief  mourner  valiantly — though 
fortunately  he  remembered  to  keep  dry,  as  far  as 
the  rain  was  concerned.  His  emotion  was  quite 
genuine.  He  could  not  see  pain,  but  pathos  at 
once  appealed,  and  all  the  way  back  to  the  station 
he  cried  into  his  hat. 

"I  shall  never  get  over  this, "  he  said  miserably, 
to  Mick.  "Never!" 

"No?" 

"Never!  The  love  of  my  youth  was  terrible 
enough,  but  the  love  of  my  maturity  ...  it  is 
infinitely  worse!  I  have  loved  but  two  women, 
Mick,  and  both  of  them  sleep  the  last,  long  sleep." 
His  voice  rose  to  a  sound  of  grief  little  inferior  to 
a  bellow.  "  I  have  loved  and  lost — twice ! " 

"Indeed,  "said  Mick. 

"Yes,  ah,  I  know  you  understand;  yet  you,  my 
dear  fellow,  losing  but  a  friend,  happy  with  the  wife 
of  your  heart  .  .  .  even  you  can  hardly  measure 
my  grief.  It  may  have  been  a  sin  for  me,  a  married 
man,  to  love  another  woman  than  my  wife,  even 
if  I  had  the  strength  to  part  from  that  woman  in 
honour,  but  now  Heaven  has  chastened  me  for 
that  sin!" 

"Rather!"  said  Mick.  "Here  's  the  train,  and 
— that  little  boy  you  had  trouble  with  seems  re- 
turning to  school  by  it." 

"Tell  the  guard !  He  must  lock  me  in ! "  panted 
Mr.  Higgins,  in  alarm. 

But  the  guard  had  no  time  to  lock  the  august 


"Die  Wanderlust"  391 

passenger  in,  and  the  bad  little  boy  dived  gaily  into 
the  carriage. 

"What  0,  old  chap, "  he  said,  in  friendly  fashion. 
"This  is  a  bit  of  all  right,  ain't  it!" 

Mick  wondered  what  would  happen  to  the  great 
Uncle  William  at  the  hands  of  the  little  boy,  and 
decided  he  must  go  and  tell  Miss  Elphenstonne 
about  it.  How  amused  she  would  be!  How  she 
would  laugh! 

Then  he  remembered  he  would  never  be  able 
to  make  her  laugh  again.  She  lay  where  there  is 
an  end  of  laughter,  and  where  dancing  feet  fall 
still.  She  would  dance  on  the  leaves  no  more,  nor 
laugh  for  the  gayest  jest  on  earth. 

And  as  he  staggered  back  to  where  they  had 
laid  her,  to  be  at  last  alone  with  his  dead,  the  agony 
of  realisation  came  over  him.  .  .  . 

When  night  came,  he  was  still  standing  dazed 
by  an  open  grave,  and  as  he  stood,  he  lifted  his 
head  sharply,  like  a  man  awakening  from  a  dream, 
for  a  voice  was  calling. 

"Come  back!  "it  thrilled  softly.    "Comeback!" 

And  he  knew  that  he  would  go.  Empty  of  heart, 
barren  of  soul,  there  was  still  that  left! 

The  desire  of  strange,  fair  cities  shook  him ;  and  he 
bowed  his  knee  to  the  vagabond's  unsleeping  god. 

"Die  Wanderlust!    Die  Wanderlust!" 

It  was  stronger  than  life  or  love,  greater  than 
fame.  It  lived  on  while  the  graves  clung  together 
like  hiving  bees,  and  the  grass  was  dead  beneath 
the  grey  scattered  ashes  of  Time. 


392  Vagabond  City 

It  was  stronger  even  than  death,  for  beyond 
death  it  lived  on,  and  after  he  had  fallen  in  the 
wilderness,  behold!  the  four  winds  of  heaven  played 
their  game  of  riot  with  his  dust,  and  carried  it 
to  other  cities  still!  A  vagabond  in  life;  a  vaga- 
bond in  death.  Desire  held  for  an  hour,  and  love 
had  its  brief  magic  day,  while  fame  was  but  a  mock- 
ery, as  frail  as  a  butterfly's  wing,  as  evanescent  as 
the  foam  of  a  reckless  sea. 

But  the  oldest  thing  of  all  was  left. 

So,  as  the  dawn  rose  slowly,  and  splendour 
broke  in  the  sky,  he  set  his  face  toward  the  East. 


THE  END 


Selection  from  the 
Catalogue  of 

F.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


Complete    Catalogues   »t»nt 
on  application 


A  Hew  Novel  by  the  Author  of 
"The  Rosary" 

The  Following  of  the 
Star 

By  Florence  L.  Barclay 

Author  of  "  The  Rosary,"  "  The  Mistress  of 
Shenstone,"  etc. 

With  Frontispiece  by  F.  H.  Townsend.     Cr.  8vo. 
$1.35  net.    ($1.50  by  mail) 

A  love  story  which  turns  upon  a  Christmas  sermon 
preached  by  a  young  missionary  home  from  Africa  for 
a  brief  respite.  The  sentiments  were  far  too  lofty  for 
the  village  congregation,  but  proud,  wilful  Diana 
Rivers,  the  possessor  of  wealth  as  well  as  of  beauty, 
heard  and — though  unconsciously — soul  went  out  to 
soul.  But  Diana  scorned  matrimony,  and  David's  life 
was  vowed  to  missionary  work  in  the  heart  of  the 
Dark  Continent. 

Why,  nevertheless,  they  married  just  before  the 
steamer  sailed,  and  how  they  parted  ceremoniously  at 
the  gangplank,  each  loving  the  other,  but  believing  the 
other  cared  not,  all  this  is  told  with  a  wealth  of  true 
sentiment  and  romance  until  the  climax  is  reached, 
and  the  reader  turns  back  to  dwell  once  again  in  the 
wonderful  realm  which  the  talented  author  has  created. 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


"  Reading  this  book  is  like  breathing  strong  refreshing 
air." — N.  Y.  Evening  Sun 

Bawbee    Jock 

By  Amy  McLaren 

Author  of  "The  Yoke  of  Silence,"  etc., 

"Amid  delightful  Highland  scenes  and 
charming  Highland  people  a  very  pretty 
love  duet  is  sung  in  Bawbee  Jock.  ...  A 
refreshing  contrast  to  most  novels  written 
nowadays." — New  York  Sun. 

"One  of  the  most  delightful  love  stories  of 
the  year,  as  fresh  as  the  breath  of  heather  on 
the  Scottish  hills." — Columbus  Journal. 

"Idealistic?  Very.  In  a  way  that  makes 
one  glad  that  stories  such  as  it  still  appear." 

Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

Second  Impression.     $1 35  net.     Bymail,$/J50 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  Publishers 


Down  Our  Street 

By  J.  E.  Buckrose 

Author  of  "  The  Toll  Bar,"  "  Love  in  a  Little  Town,"  etc. 

"  Mrs.  Bean  is  a  creation  of  which  any  author  might 
be  proud,  and  she  lends  distinction  and  grace  to  a  novel 
of  quite  unusual  merit.  There  is  good  wit  and  common- 
sense  in  every  line,  and  rarer  qualities  besides." — Pall 
Mall  Gazette. 

"Mrs.  Buckrose  is  in  many  ways  one  of  the  most 
interesting  of  our  younger  novelists,  for  most  of  us  who 
know  that  the  commonplace  happenings  of  every-day  life 
are  of  all  happenings  the  most  important  and  most  real  to 
us  will  find  '  Down  Our  Street*  full  of  charm,  and  in  Mrs. 
Bean,  who  is  the  blundering  good  genius  of  the  street, 
we  make  a  friend  whom  we  are  not  likely  to  forget. 
She  is  a  lovable  creation  of  whom  any  novelist  might  be 
proud." — London  Mail 

"  Mrs.  Bean  is  a  joy  forever — weD-bred  in  her  wildest 
vagaries,  with  the  essential  politesse  du  coeur,  and  full  of 
such  delicious  vitality  and  vim  that  no  girl  can  hope  to 
rival  her.  Mrs.  Buckrose  will  probably  be  implored  to 
give  her  public  more  of  her.  Let  her  resist.  Mrs.  Bean 
is  perfect  as  she  stands.  For  the  rest  of  the  picture  of 
'  the  street  * — especially  when  Miss  White  and  her  friends 
come  in — is  an  excellent,  amusing,  and  rather  touching 
one." — London  Observer. 

Crown  8vo.     $1.35  net 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

New  York  London 


Myrtle  Reed's  New 

A  Weaver   of 
Dreams 

By  the  Author  of  "  Lavender  and  Old  Lace,"  "  Old 
Rose  and  SOver,"  etc. 

Myrtle  Reed's  new  novel  is  a  fasci- 
nating and  altogether  charming  love 
story,  full  of  the  most  delicate  touches 
of  fancy  and  humor, — a  book  that 
leaves  a  pleasant  impression  on  the 
memory,  and  one  that  people  will  find 
most  appropriate  as  a  dainty  gift. 

"Beautifully  printed  and  bound.      Cloth 

$1.5O  net.    Full  Red  Leather,  $2.oo 

net.       Antique   Calf,  $2. SO   net 

Lavender  Silk,  $3.5O  net 

(Postage  15  cents) 

Uniform  with  "  Master  of  the  Vineyard  " 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


JOL 


A     000  041  881     4 


